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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


/ 


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•"^ 


THE 

MODERN  SHORT- STORY 

A   STUDY   OF    THE    FORM: 

ITS   PLOT,   STRUCTURE,    DEVELOPMENT 

AND    OTHER    REQUIREMENTS 


BY 
LUCY   LILIAN   NOTESTEIN 

IN    COLLABORATION    WITH 

WALDO   HILARY   DUNN 

PROFESSOR   OF   RHETORIC  AND   ENGLISH   COMPOSITION 
IN   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF  WOOSTER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  A.   S.   BARNES   COMPANY 

1914 


C 


COPYRIGHT,  I914 
THE  A   S.  BARNES  CO. 


Set  Up  and  electrolyped.    Published  January,  igi4 


THE'PLIMPTON-PRESa 
NORWOOD.  MASS'U'S'A 


rv) 


?/n/ 


3373 


TO 

RUDYARD   KIPLING 

MASTER   OF  THE    MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

MASTER   OF  THE   MAGIC   OF   WORDS 

THIS   BOOK   IS   RESPECTFULLY   DEDICATED 

BY  THE  AUTHORS 


672477 


PREFACE 

The  object  of  this  book  is  to  state  as  clearly  as 
may  be,  just  what  the  modern  Short-story  is,  and  to 
enumerate  and  expound  the  principles  underlying 
the  most  typical  examples  of  this  distinctive  kind 
of  fiction.  An  experience  of  several  years  as  a 
teacher  of  college  classes  in  Short-story  writing 
convinced  me  that  in  the  case  of  my  own  students 
I  could  secure  better  results  by  the  use  of  a  text- 
book different  in  type  from  any  of  those  available. 
Some  of  the  existing  works  on  the  subject  treat  in 
elaborate  detail  the  development  of  the  Short-story 
from  the  time  of  the  narratives  of  the  Egyptian 
papyri;  others  confuse  the  student  by  discussing 
at  too  great  length  many  related  forms  of  merely 
short  fiction.  In  regard  to  other  more  or  less  ad- 
mirable texts,  I  have  only  to  say  that  my  method 
differs  from  that  laid  down  in  any  of  them.  In 
teaching  the  writing  of  the  Short-story,  I  have 
thought  it  best  to  hold  to  the  strictly  modern  form, 
and  to  leave  the  history  of  its  evolution  as  matter 
for  a  separate  and  distinct  course  of  study.  I 
soon  became  convinced  that  I  should  have  to  make 


VI 


PREFACE 


a  restatement  of  what  is  known  about  the  Short- 
story  in  the  order  which  experience  taught  me  was 
most  serviceable  from  the  teacher's  point  of  view. 

When  this  conviction  came  to  me,  I  found  myself 
too  closely  occupied  with  other  imperative  duties 
to  undertake  such  a  work.  It  was  my  good  fortune 
to  be  able  to  turn,  at  this  time,  to  one  of  my  former 
students,  Miss  Lucy  Lilian  Notestein,  a  graduate 
of  the  University  of  Wooster.  She  brought  to  the 
work  a  broad  and  thorough  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
ject, an  enthusiastic  devotion,  and  a  carefulness  of 
detail  which  I  myself  could  scarcely  have  sum- 
moned. Thus  it  is  that,  although  the  idea  of  this 
book  originated  with  me,  the  actual  work  has  all 
been  done  by  Miss  Notestein.  Together  we  have 
agreed  upon  the  plan  and  the  contents  of  the  volume, 
and  together  we  have  read  it  in  proof. 

It  will  be  noticed  that,  in  the  main,  the  text  is 
based  upon  a  few  modern  Short-stories  which  have 
earned  for  themselves  an  established  place  in  litera- 
ture. We  have  felt  that  it  is  a  distinct  gain  to 
illustrate  all  points  by  reference  to  these  few  ex- 
amples. Teachers  may  require  students  to  become 
thoroughly  familiar  with  the  stories  herein  referred 
to,  and  students  will  fmd  a  distinct  gain  in  power 
in  actually  mastering  these  specimens.  Moreover, 
the  principles  underlying  these  Short-stories  will  be 
found  to  be  the  principles  underlying  all  good  Short- 
stories.     Although  in  the  preparation  of  this  book 


PREFACE  vii 

many  hundreds  of  stories  have  been  read,  we  have 
refrained  from  burdening  the  text  with  titles.  The 
restriction  of  examples  is  a  part  of  our  method. 

Those  who  desire  histories  of  the  Short-story  may 
select  from  a  number  on  the  market.  Bibliographies 
of  the  subject  are  now  easily  accessible.  We  have 
therefore  burdened  this  volume  with  neither  his- 
tory nor  bibliography.  We  have  made  an  effort 
to  hold  to  the  original  purpose:  to  set  forth  a  study 
of  the  Short-story  in  its  typical  modern  form.  We 
have  consulted  at  first  hand  all  the  published  litera- 
ture bearing  upon  this  fictional  form,  and  have  used 
it  as  best  suited  our  purpose.  We  have  tried  to 
indicate  in  all  cases  direct  indebtedness  to  previous 
writers  on  the  same  subject. 

It  is  our  hope  that  this  book  may  prove  of  much 
value  to  the  rapidly  increasing  number  of  private 
readers  and  students  who  are  finding  in  the  Short- 
story  that  high  degree  of  satisfaction  which  comes 
from  a  study  of  finished  art.  Although  prepared 
primarily  for  use  as  a  college  text-book,  the  volume 
is  not,  in  our  opinion,  for  that  reason  less  adapted 
to  the  use  of  the  general  reader,  but  more  so. 
Every  attempt  has  been  made  to  avoid  vagueness 
and  obscurity  of  statement:  no  attempt  has  been 
made  to  employ  technical  or  unusual  terms  for  the 
sake  of  the  terms  themselves.  We  have  tried  to  be 
honestly,  transparently  straightforward  and  unos- 
tentatious. 


viii  PREFACE 

There  remains  only  the  pleasure  of  acknowledging 
the  unusual  debt  of  gratitude  we  owe  to  Jonas  0. 
Notestein,  Aylsworth  Professor  of  the  Latin  Lan- 
guage and  Literature;  to  Mr.  Walter  E.  Peck,  of  the 
department  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition, 
in  the  University  of  Wooster;  and  to  Mrs.  Fern 
Greenwald  Dunn.  For  helpful  suggestion,  sympa- 
thetic criticism,  and  aid  in  seeing  this  volume 
through    the    press,    we   can    render   to    them    no 

adequate    return. 

WALDO  H.  DUNN 

University  of  Wooster, 
October  4,  1913 


CONTENTS 


I. -THE  MODERN   SHORT-STORY  Page 

A  distinct  form  of  ail.  It  does  not  necessarily  treat  of 
a  turning-point  in  the  life  of  an  individual.  Its  material, 
incidents,  and  situations.  Has  a  climax;  hence  plot 
with  interweaving  character  and  action.  Should  give  a 
single  impression.  DifTers  thus  from  the  novel.  Rela- 
tion of  single  impression  to  climax.  Impression  emo- 
tional rather  than  intellectual.  Length  of  story  varies, 
as  also,  number  of  characters,  the  time,  and  the  place 
necessary  to  action.  Definition  of  the  Short-story. 
Comparison  with  principles  laid  down  by  Poe.  Types 
of  stories:  Character;  Action;  Setting.  Kinds  classi- 
fied: Mystery  story;  Problem  story;  Story  based  on 
social  and  economic  questions;  Story  of  special  class  or 
locality;  Of  special  mood  or  emotion;  Adventure  story; 
Story  of  symbolism.     Possible  value  of  Short-story   .    .         3 

II— THE   GERMINAL   IDEA 

Germinal  idea  distinguished  from  title,  subject,  theme, 
motive,  purpose.  Defined.  May  be:  Incident;  Situa- 
tion; Impression  of  character,  of  setting;  Mood;  Title; 
Abstract  truth.  Its  sources  are  experience  and  reading. 
Idea  should  be  tested  for  its  story  possibilities.  Result- 
ing story  should  not  be  trivial,  not  trite,  not  polemic. 
Novelty  valuable.  Purpose  of  story  to  be  considered, 
also  single  impression 29 


X  CONTENTS 

III  —  PLOT  Page 

Nature  of  plot.  Requires  selection  and  rearrangement 
of  details  for  cause  and  effect.  Weakness  of  the  true- 
story.  Simplicity  of  plot  necessary  and  advantageous. 
Essentials:  Character  and  action  interwoven  at  climax. 
Elements  of  plot  construction:  Climax  —  its  possible 
nature;  Comphcation  involving  an  unavoidable  ob- 
stacle; Circumstances  leading  to  the  complication; 
Characters  —  main  and  accessory;  Environment. 
Illustrative  plots  with  explanation 51 

IV  —  STRUCTURE 
Distinction  between  plot  and  structure.  Rule  of  economy 
and  emphasis  a  guiding  principle.  Developing  charac- 
ters, —  for  contrast,  —  for  background,  —  for  natural- 
ness, —  for  the  carrying  out  of  details.  Incidents  may 
serve  in  three  ways:  To  advance  movement;  To  illus- 
trate; To  give  emotional  stimulus.  Proportion  be- 
tween character,  action,  and  setting  must  be  observed. 
Use  of  refrain  and  thematic  variations  for  emphasis. 
Order  of  events  within  a  story.  Should  it  be  chrono- 
logical? Divisions  within  the  narrative.  The  "angles 
of  narration":  Objective;  Participant;  Letter  or  diary; 
Witness  or  auditor;  Story  within  a  story.  Necessity 
of  verisimilitude.  Means  of  attaining  it:  Truth  of  idea; 
Contact  with  the  actual;   Vividness;    Details 76 

V  — THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING 

Importance  of  end.  May  dissipate  or  strengthen  single 
im{)rcssion.  Ends  may  be  various:  The  climax;  A 
tapering  off  from  climax;  A  final  deepening  of  impres- 
sion; or  a  Comment.  Harmony  between  beginning  and 
end  valuable  for  unity.  What  the  beginning  is.  Its 
function:  To  scL  the  emotional  tone;  To  introduce  main 
characters.  Its  forms:  Action;  Character;  Setting; 
Generalization.  The  first  sentence.  Illustrative  story 
beginnings 103 


CONTENTS  xi 

VI  — THE  TITLE  Page 

Function  of  the  title.  Names  story  fitly.  Attracts 
attention.  Guiding  principles  in  choice  of  title.  Let 
it  be  brief  and  uniciue.  Character  names  rarely  effec- 
tive. Let  it  be  definite,  honest,  and  pleasing.  Also 
thought-arresting,   thought-compelling 122 

VII  —  CHARACTERIZATION 
Characterization,  in  Short-story,  in  novel.  Character 
conception.  What  it  involves.  Characteristics  dif- 
ferentiated: Typical;  Generic;  Individual.  Individ- 
uality many-sided.  Development  in  character.  The 
main  plot  action  a  means  of  defining  character.  Lesser 
methods  of  characterization.  Direct,  by  details,  by 
analysis,  presented  gradually.  Indirect.  Materials: 
Action;  Effect  upon  another  person;  Appearance; 
Names;  Accomplishments;  Environment;  Speech     .    .      129 

VIII  —  ATMOSPHERE 
What  it  is.  Its  twofold  meaning.  Its  value  for  single 
impression.  It  may  be  produced:  By  description  — 
examples  from  They ;  By  emotional  incidents  and 
effects  —  examples.  As  auxiliary  aids  there  may  be  found: 
Contrast;    Foreshadowing;    Local  color,  with  dialect.       158 

IX  —  STYLE 
The  principles  of  style  in  all  branches  of  literature  essen- 
tially the  same.  Treated  here  only  in  so  far  as  they  are 
affected  by  the  form  and  nature  of  the  Short-story.  All 
style  qualities  finally  subject  to  their  propriety  in  the 
individual  story.  Directness  and  simplicity  usually 
demanded.  Style  may  be  of  value  for  atmosphere, 
since  it  may  appeal  to  the  imagination:  Through  the 
associalional  quality  of  words;  Through  picturesque- 
ncss;  Through  sound  suggestion;  Through  figurative 
expression.  All  grace  of  style  dependent  on  the  skill 
and  personality  of  the  writer 173 


xU  CONTENTS 

Page 
X  — THE   PERSONALITY    OF   THE   WRITER 

The  Short-story  is  more  than  form  and  technique.  Per- 
sonaUty  a  factor  in  all  literature.  How  and  why.  Cer- 
tain qualities  common  to  story-tellers:  Ability  to  grasp 
facts;  Imaginative  insight;  Sympathy.  Lack  of  feel- 
ing in  Maupassant.  Personality  may  differ  widely. 
Determines  choice  of  subjects  and  attitude  toward  sub- 
jects. Compare  Hawthorne,  Kipling,  Henry  James, 
Poe.  Dangers  of  imitation.  Joy  and  growth  in  and 
through  the  Short-story.  Present  tendency  toward 
commercialization  a  danger 189 


THE   MODERN  SHORT-STORY 


THE  MODERN  SHORT-STORY 

I 

THE  MODERN  SHORT-STORY 

The  Short-story  ^  years  ago  felt  its  way  into 
modern  art.  To-day  it  is  an  insistent  presence. 
It  has  passed  safe  through  the  period  of  experimen- 
tation, and  is  the  most  popular,  as  well  as  the  most 
modern,  of  literary  forms.  It  is  more  than  mere 
short  narrative.  It  is  an  artistic  fact,  distinct, 
defmite,  governed  by  specific  laws.  Yet  it  is  akin 
to  the  other  forms  of  narrative  art.  The  Short- 
story  witch  gathered  material  from  varied  sources: 
some  qualities  she  took  from  the  novel,  some  from 
the  tale  and  the  sketch,  some  from  the  drama. 
Allied  to  all  of  these  forms,  yet  different  from  each, 
the  Short-story  combines  in  a  new  way  narrative 
interest,  brevity,  unity  of  emotional  impression, 
and  climactic  plot. 

"The    Short-story    is    a    small    thing,    cunningly 

1  We  accept  Brander  Matthews'  method  of  designating  the 
form:  "I  have  written  'Short-stories'  with  a  capital  S  and  a 
hyphen  because  I  wished  to  emphasize  the  distinction  between 
the  Short-storj'^  and  the  story  which  is  merely  short.  The 
Short-story  is  a  high  and  difficult  department  of  fiction.  The 
story  which  is  short  can  be  written  by  anybody  who  can  write 
at  all;  and  it  may  be  good,  bad,  or  indifferent;  but  at  its  best 
it  is  wholly  unlike  the  Short-story."  Brander  Matthews,  The' 
Philosophy  of  the  Short-stonj,  pp.  24-5.  Longmans,  Green 
&  Co.,  New  York,  1901. 


4  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

wrought.  From  the  first  Hne  to  the  last  it  must  be 
decorated,  poUshed,  highly  concentrated,  closely 
welded."  ^  .  Because  of  these  strict  requirements,  it 
has  developed  a  regularity  of  structure  almost 
unknown  to  other  literary  forms.  Nowhere  else 
must  the  literary  artist  be  so  conscious  of  his  art. 
It  has  been  said  that  "...  there  is  no  form  of 
literary  art,  not  even  the  sonnet,  to  which  the 
mechanics  of  composition  are  more  essentially 
important  than  to  the  successfully  excellent  Short- 
story.  Here  form  is  not  paramount,  but,  without 
qualification  or  peradventure,  it  is  here  absolutely 
essential  to  the  effect  sought."  ^  This  studied  regu- 
larity of  structure  is,  however,  not  a  hindrance  to 
beauty  or  to  power:  it  but  lends  the  charm  of 
perfection.  One  looks  with  admiration  at  an  empty 
honeycomb.  Yet  it  is  the  mechanical  perfection 
of  its  construction  that  causes  one's  pleasure  in 
seeing  it.  One  wonders  at  the  skill  which  has 
built  the  cells  so  faultlessly.  Little  pleasure  would 
be  experienced  in  examining  a  honeycomb  of  irreg- 
ular cells  arranged  in  no  definite  order.  Thus  the 
Short-story  form  ^  has  not  lost  but  gained  by  reason 
of  its  restrictions. 

1  Harper's  Weekly,  May  23,  1908,  p.  8. 

2  Rankin,  Poet  Lore,  17:    1;    105. 

^  "The  Short-story  in  prose  literature  corresponds,  then,  to 
the  lyric  in  poetry;  like  the  lyric,  its  unity  of  effect  turns  largely 
upon  its  brevity;  and  as  there  are  well-known  laws  of  lyric 
structure  which  the  lyric  poet  violates  at  his  peril  or  obeys  to 
'his  triumph,  so  the  Short-story  must  observe  certain  conditions 
and  may  enjoy  certain  freedoms  that  are  peculiar  to  itself." 
Bliss  Perry,  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction,  p.  306. 


THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY  5 

The  restrictions  of  the  Short-story  form  neces- 
sarily affect  the  range  of  its  possible  subject-matter. 
No  whole  life  can  be  treated  adequately,  no  com- 
plex plot  can  be  entertained,  within  the  brief  limits 
set  for  the  Short-story.  UnUke  the  novel,  it  shows 
not  the  whole  man  —  except  by  passing  hint  —  but 
a  significant  moment  or  experience,  a  significant 
character-trait.  However  vividly  this  chosen  mo- 
ment may  be  interpreted,  much  will  still  be  left  to 
the  imagination.  It  is  the  aim  of  the  Short-story 
writer  to  trace  the  causal  relations  of  but  one  cir- 
cumstance, so  that  this  circumstance  may  be 
intensified.  He  isolates  so  that  he  may  throw  the 
flash-light  more  searchingly  on  some  one  event,  on 
some  one  element  of  character,  on  some  one  emo- 
tion. He  presents  "in  a  vigorous,  compressed, 
suggestive  way,  a  simplification  and  idealization 
of  a  particular  part  or  phase  of  life."  ^ 

"...  If  all  narration  amounts,  as  critics  say, 
merely  to  a  simplification  of  experience,  imagina- 
tive or  real,  then  a  Short-story  is  simplification  to 
the  highest  degree.  We  are  selecting  far  more  than 
in  a  novel,  and  this  because  we  are  looking  only  for 
the  chain  of  related  incidents  that  go  to  make  up 
one  event.  We  are  picking  out  the  steps  that  make 
the  tragedy,  as  in  Maupassant's  famous  story.  The 
Necklace,  or  in  Kipling's  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy; 
we  are  looking  only  for  what  bears  upon  our  narrow 
purpose,  that  the  interest  may  be  concentrated, 
and  the  conception  vivified,  beyond  the  power  of 

^  Albright,  The  Short-story,  p.  5. 


'e  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

the  novel.  The  process  is  very  artificial,  but  very- 
powerful;  it  is  like  turning  a  telescope  upon  one 
nebula  in  the  heavens."  ^  "It  [the  Short-story] 
affords,  too,  ample  opportunity  for  subtle  and 
penetrating  analysis;  for  close  and  merciless  study 
of  morbid  temperaments  or  vitally  sympathetic 
portraitures  of  great  natures  contending  with  tragic 
conditions;  for  the  segregation  of  a  bit  of  significant 
experience  and  a  finished  presentation  of  its  aspects 
and  effects;  for  the  detachment  of  a  single  figure 
from  the  dramatic  movement,  and  a  striking  sketch 
of  its  features  and  gestures;  for  the  dissection  of  a 
motive  so  searching  and  skilful  that  its  deepest 
roots  are  laid  bare;  for  effectiveness  in  bringing  a 
series  of  actions  into  clear  light  in  a  sudden  and 
brief  crisis,  and  telling  a  complete  story  by  sugges- 
tion; for  the  delicate  impressionism  which,  by 
vividness  or  charm  of  phrase  and  diffusion  of  atmos- 
phere, magically  conveys  the  sense  of  landscape; 
for  the  wealth  of  humor  concentrated  on  a  person 
or  an  incident,  and  for  the  touch  of  tragedy  resting 
like  the  finger  of  fate  on  an  experience  or  a  charac- 
ter." 2  The  work  of  the  Short-story  is  to  make  life 
vivid  by  signalizing  moments. 

It  has  been  a  popular  misconception  that  a  Short- 
story  writer  should  use  as  material  only  crucial 
incidents  or  situations.  Since  only  one  event  or 
situation  can  be  emphasized  in  a  Short-story,  it 
is  natural  to  suppose  that  a  writer  ought  to  choose 

1  Jessup  and  Canby,  The  Book  of  the  Short-story,  p.  24. 
2Mabie,  Outlook,  89:  119. 


THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY  7 

the  one  determining  crisis  which  makes  or  mars, 
the  supreme  struggle  of  a  soul,  the  one  great  change 
or  turning-point  in  a  life-history.  Such  moments 
do  afford  wonderful  opportunities  for  striking  analy- 
ses, for  emotional  stress,  for  the  suggestion  of  a 
whole  character  sketched  in  the  act  of  meeting 
its  test;  they  have  been  the  bases  of  many  of  the 
best  Short-stories  —  stories  of  real  literary  value. 
One  expects  from  the  more  significant  subject  the 
more  telling  interpretation.  It  is  true  that  an 
inspiring  subject  goes  a  long  way  toward  the  mak- 
ing of  a  successful  story.  Yet  a  great  subject  may 
easily  fail  of  becoming  a  great  story.  Literature 
does  not  content  itself  simply  with  rendering  the 
significant  more  significant;  it  may  find  its  glory 
quite  as  really  in  the  commonplace. 

Although  every  life  has  its  crucial  turning-points, 
every  life  has,  also,  its  minor  crises,  its  incidents 
which  are  less  than  crises,  —  almost  anecdotes. 
These,  too,  the  Short-story  writer  may  interpret. 
He  may  picture  the  Httle  sorrows,  the  little  joys, 
the  little  victories,  the  little  defeats.  He  may  show 
the  inconsistencies  and  incongruities  of  life.  "It 
is  his  delight  to  observe  and  note  the  fresh,  the 
striking,  the  unusual  or  interesting  phases  of  human 
life  about  him,  to  turn  them  over  in  his  mind  till 
they  have  taken  definite  new  form,  and  send  them 
forth  again  —  his  own  creation."  ^  A  whole  life 
may  not  be  vitally  affected  by  what  happens  in 
some  unimportant  moment,  but  in  the  light  of  this 

'  Albright,  The  Short-story,  p.  14. 


8  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

moment  a  whole  character  may  be  explained. 
Upon  brief  and  inconsequential  moments  ^  the 
greater  number  of  our  modern  magazine  Short- 
stories  are  based.  Vivid  and  satisfying  as  her 
narratives  are,  Mary  Wilkins  Freeman  used  the 
commonplace  incidents  and  situations  of  a  work-a- 
day  world  for  her  New  England  stories.  0.  Henry, 
with  a  purpose  of  showing  the  ordinary  life  of  the 
average  man  or  woman  in  New  York,  has  often 
used  incidents  which  to  most  of  us  would  never 
have  seemed  worth  the  telling.  Maupassant  has 
written  an  interesting  story  based  on  the  picking 
up  of  a  piece  of  string.  One  thing  is  demanded, 
however,  of  the  writer  of  such  a  story:  he  must 
develop  through  this  incident  some  one  aspect  of 
human  nature  in  its  intensity  by  bringing  out  its 
high  lights.  By  touching  upon  human  nature, 
the  story-writer  establishes  a  link  between  the  indi- 
vidual, —  no  matter  how  queer,  unusual,  or  com- 
monplace he  may  be,  —  and  mankind.  We  know 
him;  for,  broadly  speaking,  we  are  actuated  by  the 
same  motives  and  passions.  The  story  has  a  mean- 
ing. At  least,  we  have  gained  a  glimpse  into  the 
spirit  of  mankind.  Thus,  even  the  commonplace 
is  rendered  significant. 

Thus  far,  it  has  been  intimated  that  Short-story 

'  "Art,  likewise,  perceives  that  its  function  to-day  is  not 
alone  the  great  setting  forth  of  the  awakening  of  the  human 
soul  or  of  the  human  soul's  great  achievements  and  grand  fail- 
ures, but  also  the  adequate  presentation  of  that  soul's  stuff  and 
of  its  relations,  item  by  item,  and  each  item  in  isolation." 
Rankin,  Poet  Lore,  17:  1;  105. 


THE   MODERN    SIIORT-STORY  9 

material  is  either  incident  or  situation.  Incident 
needs  no  explanation.  It  is  a  simple  occurrence  or 
event,  a  passing  experience.  It  is  a  bank  failure, 
the  arrest  of  a  thief,  the  bursting  of  a  flood-dyke, 
a  football  victory,  the  overturning  of  a  canoe,  a 
class  rush.  One  incident  must  be  treated  in  itself, 
and  apart  from  its  consequences.  A  situation, 
however,  presents  concretely  a  significant  relation 
between  persons  and  persons,  or  persons  and  things 
or  circumstances.^  It  is  a  condition  which  may 
or  may  not  be  followed  by  certain  defmite  results. 
Although  an  incident  may  be  detached  from  a 
course  of  events,  it  is  complete  in  itself;  although  a 
situation  may  be  related  more  or  less  closely  to  the 
current  of  events,  it  is  itself  incomplete. ^ 

Suppose  a  man  arrested  on  a  false  charge  of  theft; 
a  telegraph  operator  marooned  with  no  communica- 
tion with  the  outside  world  save  by  his  disordered 
instrument;  a  hard-working  Italian  deprived  by 
a  bank  failure  of  the  money  he  had  been  treasuring 
up  for  importing  his  wife  and  family.  These  are 
situations.  In  They,  Kipling  has  supposed  a  blind 
woman  possessed  with  an  overwhelming  love  of 
children,   endowed   with   a   sixth   sense,  —  a   capa- 

1  "A  situation  may  be  defined  as  any  active  relationship 
between  character  and  circumstances."  11.  S.  Canby,  ^1  Study 
of  the  Short-story,  p.  43. 

2  "Incidents  are  groups  of  continuous  details  forming  a 
complete  interest  in  themselves  as  ministering  to  our  sense  of 
story.  ...  In  Situation,  on  the  other  hand,  a  series  of  details 
cohere  into  a  single  impression  ■without  losing  the  sense  of  in- 
completeness." R.  G.  Moulton,  Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic 
Artist,  pp.  286-7. 


10  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

bility  of  association  with  a  disembodied  spirit. 
Assume  a  man  happily  recovered  from  a  long  prison 
experience  who  realized  to  the  full  the  degrading 
influence  of  prison-life.  Coppee  has  used  this 
situation  in  The  Substitute.  Suppose  a  baby  should 
be  born  in  the  rough,  immoral  atmosphere  of  a 
California  mining  camp,  and  you  have  the  basis  for 
Bret  Harte's  well-known  story,  The  Luck  of  Roaring 
Camp.  Suppose  a  person  should  take  on  the  fea- 
tures of  that  which  he  constantly  beholds.  Haw- 
thorne developed  this  situation  in  The  Great  Stone 
Face.  The  greater  number  of  great  stories  seem 
to  be  built  upon  situations  rather  than  upon  in- 
cidents. The  greater  number  of  our  present-day 
magazine  stories  are  built  upon  situations.  To 
treat  a  situation  adequately,  to  clothe  it  in  fitting 
incident,  may  take  perhaps  a  more  consummate 
art  than  to  visualize  a  striking  event,  but  the  result- 
ing story  is  generally  much  the  more  satisfying. 
To  be  made  significant  and  active,  the  situation 
must  gather  about  itself  illustrative  incident  and 
character;  it  must  result  strikingly;  it  must  lead 
progressively  to  an  end. 

Whether,  indeed,  the  Short-story  material  be 
incident  or  situation,  the  interest  must  progress 
toward  a  highest  point,  a  logical  and  emotional 
goal.  "  In  other  words,  there  must  be  a  climax, 
an  event  remarkable  in  some  respect;  and  some- 
thing must  happen  to  the  character  as  a  result  of 
something  which  he  has  done;  and,  as  Ho  wells 
wishes,  the  character  must  express  himself  in  the 


THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY  11 

episodes."  ^  The  climax  is  the  focus,  the  conver- 
ging point  of  all  possible  lines  of  vision  for  the  story. 
It  is  the  apex.  Everything  must  lead  either  to  it 
or  away  from  it.  One  should  be  able  to  look  back 
and  see  just  how  every  step  has  been  tending  toward 
it.  Matthews  says,  "The  Short-story  in  which 
nothing  happens  at  all  is  an  absolute  impossibility."  ^ 
This  happening,  this  action  at  its  culmination  is  the 
climax,  the  decisive  moment  of  change.  Climax, 
however,  implies  "a  steady  heightening  of  interest 
to  a  full  close,  rather  than  the  mental  or  emotional 
jerk  occasioned  by  surprise."  ^  It  is  the  natural 
turning-point  of  a  story,  the  place  where  for  the 
first,  one  fully  realizes  the  force  of  incident  or 
situation. 

To  achieve  this  climax,  one  must  use  a  conscious 
method,  a  design,  a  plot."*  Plot  is  "a  fusion  of 
details  into  unity,"  by  means  of  the  "imaginative 
reason";^  a  weaving  together  of  details  for  an 
intended  pattern.  In  the  Short-story,  however,  — 
indeed  in  all  dramatic  fiction  —  plot  is  no  simple 
fusion  or  weaving  of  details;  it  is  a  fusion  or  weav- 
ing for  an  end.  That  end  is  climax.  Plot  neces- 
sitates  selection   from   the   great   mass   of   possible 

1  Pitkin,  Shori-stonj  Writing,  pp.  27-8. 

-  Brander  Matthews,  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short-story,  p.  35. 

3  Albright,  The  Short-stnry,  p.  51. 

^  Although  plot  might  be  interpreted  as  the  full  design  in 
detail,  it  is  more  generally  applied  to  the  brief  statement  of  the 
essentials  of  the  plan.  In  the  Short-story,  the  plot  ought  to 
be  such  that  it  might  be  expressed  in  one  compact  sentence. 

6  Whitcomb,  The  Study  of  a  Novel,  pp.  48-9. 


12  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

details  of  only  such  as  will  harmonize  and  complete 
the  design.  It  makes  possible  the  steady  gradation 
of  interest  toward  the  end.  It  involves,  in  the 
Short-story,  emphasis  upon  chmax  so  sustained  as 
to  require  the  omission  of  everything  which  does 
not  tend  directly  towards  chmax,  and  of  nothing 
which  would  heighten  the  effect.  Character  and 
incident,  character  and  character,  incident  and 
incident,  must  be  so  wrought  together  that  they 
are  mutually  dependent.  "A  plot,"  according  to 
Mr.  Pitkin,  "is  a  climactic  series  of  events,  each  of 
which  both  determines  and  is  determined  by  the 
characters  involved."  He  says  further:  "If  the 
determination  is  one-sided,  there  results  no  plot,  in 
the  strict  dramatic  sense.  Thus,  suppose  the  events 
shaped  the  destiny  of  the  character  but  were  not 
themselves  directed  by  him;  the  hero  would  then 
be  little  more  than  the  passive  victim  of  circum- 
stances, and  the  story  would  take  on  the  loose  ves- 
ture of  flowing  adventure,  like  the  yarns  of  Sinbad, 
the  Sailor."  ^  The  tale  is  the  sum  of  parts  unre- 
lated, while  the  Short-story  is  a  vital  whole.  Loosen 
one  thread  from  the  web  of  the  Short-story,  the 
whole  is  weakened,  and  the  climax  unprovided  for. 
The  very  simplicity  of  the  plot  for  a  story  of  a  single 
situation  allows  and  requires  great  firmness  and 
strength  of  texture. 

Not  only  does  the  Short-story  require  plot  and 
climax  —  the  dramatic  essentials  —  but  it  must 
produce  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader  a  single  impres- 

1  Pitkin,  Short-story  Writing,  p.  24. 


THE   MODERN   SIIORT-STORY  13 

sion  or  effect.  This  effect  is  that  which  will  uncon- 
sciously remain  fixed  as  a  brooding  influence  on  the 
reader's  mind  even  after  the  essentials  of  plot  have 
faded  from  memory.  Sometimes,  at  the  end  of  a 
story,  one  is  able  to  formulate  the  impression;  more 
often,  unless  one  subjects  it  to  analysis,  it  remains 
unnamed  but  none  the  less  powerful.  A  single 
impression  should  be,  however,  so  vivid  that  it  is 
capable  of  analysis.  Impressions  are  generally  of 
two  kinds  —  either  a  feeling,  an  emotion;  or  simply 
a  sense  of  the  new  realization  of  some  truth.  Poe 
was  a  master  of  effects.  In  his  stories  are  well 
exemphfied  the  simple  impressions  of  feeling,  —  of 
impending  doom,  as  in  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum; 
of  pure  horror,  as  in  The  Black  Cat.  Some  impres- 
sions may  be  stated  more  definitely.  The  single 
impression  of  Mrs.  Knollys  is  the  beauty  of  a  tri- 
umphant hope.  In  Daudet's  The  Last  Class,  it  is 
sympathy  for  the  lovers  of  the  old  Alsace-Lorraine. 
In  They,  it  is  "the  consciousness  of  the  presence  of 
the  spirits  of  little  children."  ^  The  impression  of 
The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft  is  simply  self-sacrifi- 
cing heroism;  of  RappaccinVs  Daughter  it  is  of  beauty 
at  once  prodigal  and  dangerous.  A  situation  may 
suggest  several  different  effects.  Of  these,  only  one 
may  be  chosen  for  emphasis  in  the  Short-story,  and 
this  one  chosen  effect  will  go  a  long  way  toward 
determining  the  progress  of  the  story.  "  In  so  far 
as  technique  is  concerned,  the  single  effect  is  more 

1  Waite   and   Taylor,   Modern  Masterpieces  of  Short  Prose 
Fiction,  p.  xx. 


14  THE   MODERN    SIIORT-STORY 

fundamental  than  the  dramatic  effect.  It  deter- 
mines much  more  profoundly  the  structure  of  the 
Short-story.  Furthermore,  it  is,  one  might  say, 
an  absolute  ideal,  whereas  the  dramatic  is  relative 
to  the  particular  material  of  each  plot.  For  instance, 
a  weak  dramatic  quality  will  not  ruin  a  story,  pro- 
vided some  one  emotion  or  some  one  idea  is  vividly 
played  upon;  but,  conversely,  there  is  no  hope  for 
a  story,  however  dramatic,  if  it  leaves  you  with 
either  no  definite  impression  at  all,  or  else  with 
several  in  conflict  and  unrelated."  ^ 

It  is  the  single  impression  which  more  than  any 
other  one  thing  sets  off  the  Short-story  as  a  separate 
literary  form.  A  novel  may  have  many  impressions; 
it  may  thrill  with  a  wide  range  of  emotions  through- 
out its  progress.  Each  varying  incident,  each  minor 
crisis,  produces  its  peculiar  impression.  Each  epi- 
sode of  a  novel  is  long  enough  for  the  development 
of  one  impression.  When,  then,  these  episodes  are 
gathered  into  one  whole,  many  emotional  effects 
may  be  represented.  It  is  true  that  some  novels  do 
seem  to  produce  a  single  impression.  In  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  one  feels  always  that  there  is  no  escape  from 
the  effects  of  a  sin  once  committed.  The  whole 
story  is  developed  to  insure  this  impression.  Each 
crisis,  each  new  movement,  emphasizes  it.  Yet  each 
movement  is  in  itself  a  new  situation  with  its  own 
passing  impression.  The  final  impression,  too,  seems 
the  result  of  the  development  of  a  situation  in  retro- 
spect.    This   treatment  of  a  situation   allows  new 

1  Pitkin,   Short-story   Writing,   pp.   22-3. 


THE   MODERN    SIIORT-STORY  15 

situations  always  to  arise  out  of  the  old.  There  is 
in  this  novel,  therefore,  a  method  of  attaining  the 
single  impression  quite  different  from  that  used  in 
the  Short-story,  which  is  always  the  progress  of  a 
situation  toward  realization.  Just  as  the  incidents 
of  a  Short-story  all  lead  to  one  climax  of  action,  they 
must  all  lead,  also,  to  one  dominant  impression. 
Scattered  impressions  in  the  Short-story  mean  no 
impression,  for,  within  the  limits  of  the  modern 
Short-story,  one  and  only  one  impression  can  be 
developed  with  intensity. 

"  The  first  essential  for  unity  of  impression  is  single- 
ness of  purpose,  resulting  in  simplicity  of  plot.  The 
end  must  not  only  be  foreseen  from  the  beginning; 
it  must  dominate  the  whole  progress  of  the  story."  ^ 
Not  only  the  unity  but  the  intensity  of  the  impression 
is  dependent  upon  climax,  is  enforced  by  climax. 
Tone  and  climax  should  be  in  such  harmony  that 
either  one  might  suggest  the  other.  If  the  climax 
is  a  moment  of  distress,  the  single  impression  should 
be  sustained  as  a  preparation;  if  the  single  impres- 
sion is  horror,  then  the  climax  should  be  a  moment 
of  very  intense  horror.  There  have  been  written 
stories  of  a  single  impression  and  of  action  without  a 
climax.  Such  stories  are  mere  narrative  sketches, 
because  they  lack  "the  conflict  of  forces  which  results 
in  definite  action  and  outcome."  -  They  may  pro- 
duce, to  be  sure,  a  single  impression,  but  one  which 

'  Albright,  The  Shorl-stonj,  p.  85. 

^  Waite  and  Taylor,  Modern  Masterpieces  of  Short  Prose 
Fiction,  p.  x. 


16  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

lacks  the  utmost  definiteness,  distinctness.  One  is 
conscious  of  it,  but  one  cannot  see  it,  or  feel  it.  It  is 
as  water-vapor,  which  must  come  in  contact  with  cold 
before  it  is  precipitated  in  visible,  tangible  form  as 
rain.  CUmax  is  the  point  of  precipitation  of  a  single 
impression.  Again,  suppose  a  person  should  see, 
stretching  before  him  to  the  horizon,  a  succession  of 
low  undulating  hills,  each  hill  covered  with  charred 
stumps  and  scorched  tree-snags.  The  impression 
might  be  simply  that  of  gloom.  Suppose,  then, 
that  this  person  should  sight  on  a  hill  the  still  smok- 
ing ruins  of  a  dwelling.  The  scene  has  at  once  an 
objective  point.  Thus  in  a  Short-story,  the  single 
impression  is  at  once  centralized  and  vivified  by 
climax. 

The  kinds  of  impression  from  which  the  Short- 
story  writer  may  choose  are  myriad.  As  the  varia- 
tions of  life,  so  are  the  possible  impressions  to  be 
gained  from  man's  changing  relationships  in  life. 
Impressions  are  intellectual  or  emotional.  If  the 
impression  is  only  of  ingenuity  —  such  as  dexterity 
in  solving  a  problem — it  is  classed  as  intellectual.  If, 
however,  the  impression  is  centered  upon  the  effect 
of  the  solution  on  a  main  character,  it  becomes  emo- 
tional. Ingenuity  has  then  resulted  in  a  pleasurable 
satisfaction  of  curiosity,  in  surprise,  or  admiration. 
Even  these,  however,  are  but  intellectual  emotions. 
They  do  not  come  from  the  heart,  they  would  not  in 
themselves  serve  as  motives  for  action.  The  Short- 
story  demands  that  its  impression  be  truly  emotional. 
If  the  story  depended  solely  on  satisfying  curiosity, 


THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY  17 

then  the  more  the  curiosity  could  be  stimulated  by- 
building  puzzle  upon  puzzle,  the  greater  the  ingenuity 
needed  to  find  a  solution.  Although  the  impression 
would  still  remain  single,  there  would  be  no  limit  to 
the  number  of  incidents  allowed  in  a  story.  Incident 
miglit  be  piled  upon  incident  endlessly:  with  every 
addition  the  story  would  become  the  more  effective. 
The  detective  story  may  thus  fail  of  being  a  true 
Short-story.  Such  a  story  as  Poe's  The  Purloined 
Letter  is,  as  Mr.  Canby  suggests,  a  tale  in  Short-story 
form.  Such  a  story,  however,  might  become  a  true 
Short-story,  if  an  emotional  impression  could  be  added 
and  could  be  made  to  coincide  with  it  in  a  climax. 
For  a  true  Short-story,  a  single  emotional  impression 
is  absolutely  essential. 

The  length  of  a  Short-story  depends  upon  the 
situation  or  incident  with  which  one  has  to  deal. 
This  situation  may  take  five  pages  to  develop  to  a 
fitting  climax;  it  may  take  sixty.  If  one  remembers, 
however,  that  a  single  impression  must  be  produced, 
through  a  single  situation  wrought  to  a  climax,  the 
length  of  the  story  will  not  go  far  wrong.  Poe  says: 
"The  ordinary  novel  is  objectionable  from  its  length. 
...  As  it  cannot  be  read  at  one  sitting,  it  deprives 
itself,  of  course,  of  the  immense  force  derivable  from 
totality.  Worldly  interests  intervening  during  the 
pauses  of  perusal  modify,  annul,  or  counteract  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree,  the  impressions  of  the  book. 
But  simple  cessation  in  reading  would,  of  itself,  be 
suflicient  to  destroy  the  true  unity.  In  the  brief 
tale,  however,  the  author  is  enabled  to  carry  out  the 


18  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

fullness  of  his  intention,  be  it  what  it  may.  During 
the  hour  of  perusal  the  soul  of  the  reader  is  at  the 
writer's  control.  There  are  no  external  or  extrinsic 
influences  resulting  from  weariness  or  interruptions."  ^ 
The  more  swiftly,  then,  the  story  moves,  the  more 
powerful  will  be  the  impression. 

Much  the  same  principle  is  employed  in  determin- 
ing the  time  in  which  the  action  should  be  made  to 
take  place,  the  place  of  the  action,  and  the  number  of 
characters  introduced.  So  long  as  unity  of  impres- 
sion and  sustained  emphasis  on  a  climactic  situation 
are  not  violated,  it  makes  little  difference  whether 
the  action  requires  five  minutes  or  fifty  years; 
whether  the  place  be  varied  from  the  north  pole  to 
the  torrid  zone;  whether  the  characters  number 
one  or  one  hundred.  Usually,  however,  the  Short- 
story  will  require  that  only  one  main  character  be 
introduced.  Secondary  characters  are  generally  in- 
troduced as  foils  to  the  main  character.  It  is 
conceivable  that  even  in  a  Short-story  a  mob  might 
have  the  principal  part.  Of  course,  in  such  a  case, 
one  would  treat  the  mob,  not  as  a  collection  of  in- 
dividuals, but  as  a  whole.  Short-story  principles 
would  yet  apply.  We  are  ready,  then,  for  a 
definition:  The  Short-story  is  a  narrative  producing  a 
single  emotional  impression  by  means  of  sustained 
emphasis  on  a  single  climactic  incident  or  situation. 

Poe  was  the  originator  of  the  modern  Short-story 
in  America.     He  first  formulated  a  philosophy  for 
the    Short-story;     he    first    applied    the    principles 
1  Poe,  On  Ilaivt home's  Twice-Told  Tales. 


THE  MODERN   SHORT-STORY  19 

successfully  in  his  own  art.  It  will,  perhaps,  be 
useful,  then,  to  compare  the  definition  just  given 
with  the  principles  laid  down  by  him.  He  says: 
"A  skillful  literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale. 
If  wise,  he  has  not  fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accom- 
modate his  incidents;  but  having  conceived  with 
deliberate  care,  a  certain  unique  or  single  effect  to 
be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents  such  incidents,  he 
then  combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in 
establishing  this  preconceived  effect.  If  his  very 
initial  sentence  tend  not  to  the  outbringing  of  this 
effect,  then  he  has  failed  in  his  first  step.  In  the 
whole  composition,  there  should  be  no  word  written, 
of  which  the  tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to 
the  one  pre-established  design."  ^  Poe  has  here 
emphasized  unity  of  impression  as  fundamental: 
all  the  incidents  must  establish  this  ''preconceived 
effect.'"  Next,  the  first  sentence  must  tend  directly 
to  this  effect:  briefly,  no  time  must  be  lost  in  the 
beginning  of  the  real  story.  Lastly,  the  whole  must 
be  governed  by  the  principle  of  selection:  no  slight- 
est detail  whose  tendency  is  not  toward  this  pre- 
established  design  can  be  admitted.  The  gist  of 
the  paragraph  is,  briefly:  The  essential  mark  of  the 
Short-story  is  unity  of  impression  gained  by  a  domi- 
nating and  selective  emphasis  on  a  preconceived 
design.  The  definition  already  stated  accords,  then, 
with  this  summary  of  Poe's;  for  a  dominating  is  a 
sustained  emphasis,  and  selective  is  understood  in 
the    expression    "a   climactic    situation."      In    this 

1  Poc,  On  Ilawlhorne. 


20  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

expression,  however,  there  is  inchidcd  more  than 
selective  emphasis  for  unity  of  effect;  there  is  a 
climax.  Poe  worked  in  the  belief  that  the  strongest 
impression  was  reached  only  through  the  strongest 
incident  expressive  of  that  impression.  In  weaker 
hands  than  Poe's,  however,  the  Short-story  gov- 
erned by  such  a  principle  would  have  dwindled 
to  mere  impressionism.  A  safeguard  has  been 
added,  therefore,  and  this  safeguard  is  climactic 
plot. 

Although,  in  the  statement  of  the  definition,  the 
technically  perfect  Short-story  has  been  assumed, 
it  should  be  clearly  understood  that  there  are  many 
Short-stories,  —  good  Short-stories  —  which  fail  of 
technical  perfection.  They  may  admit  of  more  or 
less  digression,  they  may  reach  several  crises  which 
in  their  force  are  almost  climaxes.  No  one  doubts 
that  Hale's  The  Man  Without  a  Country  is  really 
effective,  yet  one  could  scarcely  call  it  a  technically 
perfect  Short-story.  It  is  based,  it  is  true,  on  a 
single  climactic  situation:  a  man  has  expressed  a 
desire  never  again  to  hear  the  name  of  his  native  land. 
The  final  chmax  comes  at  the  death  of  the  man. 
Yet  there  are  other  chmaxes:  where  Lieutenant  Nolan 
reads  from   The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  the  lines 

"Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said,  — 
'This  is  my  own,  my  native  land!'" 

where  he  dances  with  Mrs.  Graff;  where  his  bravery 
is  rewarded  by  the  Captain;  and  where  he  acts  as 
inlerpreler  for  the  poor  slaves  who  wish  to  be  taken 


THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY  21 

back  home.  After  each  one  of  these  cHmaxes,  the 
interest  wanes  and  is  gradually  increased  for  the 
next  climax.  In  short,  emphasis  has  not  been 
sustained.  Hawthorne  was  constantly  violating  the 
ideal  Short-story  structure  by  an  unnecessary  in- 
sistence on  the  moral  of  his  story.  He  loved  the 
symbolic  too  well  to  keep  from  over-emphasizing  it. 
Yet  Hawthorne's  stories  are  so  delicately  wrought 
that  they  live  in  spite  of  the  digressions.  What  has 
been  done  —  even  by  the  masters  —  is,  however, 
not  always  a  safe  rule  of  practice.  The  master  in 
every  art  is  allowed  some  privileges  denied  to  ama- 
teurs. Beginners  should  first  of  all  work  in  accord- 
ance with  the  laws  of  their  art.  They  should  aim  at 
nothing  short  of  technical  perfection.  Otherwise, 
they  will  unwittingly  fall  into  blunders  which  will 
make  the  story  ineffective;  otherwise,  they  can 
never  hope  to  attain  to  proficiency.  Beginners  will 
find  difficulty  enough  in  trying  to  write  an  effective 
Short-story  when  they  are  following  certain  rules; 
they  would  find  much  greater  difficulty  if  there  were 
no  rules  to  follow.  The  Short-story,  in  any  case, 
must  be  effective. 

Of  the  Short-story,  there  are  three  main  types,  — 
the  story  of  action,  the  story  of  character,  the  story 
of  setting.  These  kinds  may  be  combined,  so  long 
as  one  element,  action,  character,  or  setting,  remains 
predominant.  Thus  a  character  story  may  have, 
also,  action  and  setting  as  auxiliary.  One  might 
have  character  —  action  —  setting;  action  —  charac- 
ter —  setting;    setting  —  action  —  character.     To 


22  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

vary  one  of  these  elements  will  change  a  whole  story. 
Since  there  are  innumerable  situations  in  this  life  of 
ours,  and  as  many  different  motives  for  action  as 
there  are  actions;  since  no  two  characters  are  identi- 
cal; and  since  in  setting,  one  has  the  whole  world  to 
choose  from,  there  is  httle  likehhood  of  a  dearth 
in  Short-story  material.  A  story,  too,  may  be 
changed  simply  by  the  attitude  or  the  purpose  of  its 
writer,  by  humor,  by  contrast,  by  local  color. 

Although  no  complete  classification  is  here  at- 
tempted, it  may  be  useful  briefly  to  survey  several 
of  the  most  common  kinds  of  the  modern  Short- 
story.  These  are  the  mystery  and  psychological 
story;  the  problem  story;  the  story  of  social  and 
economic  conditions;  of  a  special  class  or  locaUty;  of 
a  special  mood;  the  story  of  adventure;  and  the 
story  of  symbolism.  It  is  clear  that  one  story  may 
sometimes  be  classed  under  several  different  heads. 
For  example,  Markheim  is  a  psychological  story; 
it  might  also  be  classed  as  a  problem  story.  A  story 
of  a  certain  locality  might  also  be  a  story  treating  of 
social  and  economic  conditions. 

Under  the  mystery  story  may  be  placed  ghost 
stories,  stories  of  the  psychologically  occult,  detec- 
tive stories,  and  simple  instances  of  the  unexplained. 
Stories  of  this  character  are  O'Brien's  What  Was  It? 
A  Mystery,  The  Ilorla  by  Maupassant,  William 
Wilson  by  Poe,  Stevenson's  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde. 
The  mystery  story  is  popular  among  beginners, 
since  it  is  thought  that  the  narration  of  the  unusual 
or  marvelous  cannot  fail  of  attracting  attention.     To 


THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY  23 

make  a  mystery  sLory  convincing,  is,  however,  a 
difficult  task.  Unless  tlie  reader's  imagination  is  so 
lirmly  gripped  that  for  the  moment  the  story  seems 
true,  no  real  interest  is  awakened.  To  treat  the 
unreal  so  that  it  appears  real  is  a  work  for  a  skilled 
artist. 

There  is  also  the  problem  story.  The  problem 
may  be  solved  or  unsolved.  Stockton's  The  Lady 
or  the  Tiger?  is  a  perfect  example.  Here  the  question 
is  so  artfully  put  that  it  can  never  be  answered. 
Ordinarily,  however,  the  problem  is  solved,  as  in 
Markhcim  and  in  Hamlin  Garland's  The  Branch 
Road.  This  kind  of  story,  too,  is  difficult.  It 
requires  that  the  writer  have  an  exceedingly  firm 
grasp  of  the  situation.  Before  the  proper  time,  the 
reader's  sympathies  must  not  be  swayed  too  much  in 
one  direction  or  too  much  in  the  other.  There  must 
be  suspense.  Yet  the  solution,  if  there  be  a  solu- 
tion, must  be  prepared  for;  it  must  seem  natural. 
Often  the  problem  story  requires  that  the  writer  do 
double  duty:  that  he  show  convincingly  vacillation 
of  mind  in  the  main  character,  and  that  he  stimulate 
temporarily  a  similar  vacillation  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader.  Beginners  should  remember,  too,  that  a 
story  which  leads  one  straight  toward  an  end,  and 
then  stops  with  a  jerk,  is  not  a  problem  story. 

Closely  allied  to  the  problem  story  is  that  which 
does  not  directly  indicate  a  social  or  economic  prob- 
lem, but  as  surely  implies  its  existence  in  the  basis 
of  a  story.  Such  are  the  stories  based  upon  strikes, 
upon  class  hatred  and  distinctions,  upon  the  treat- 


24  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

ment  of  the  criminal,  upon  the  miserable  life  of  those 
in  the  crowded  districts  of  the  cities,  upon  the  immi- 
grant question,  upon  business  fraudulence,  upon 
political  dishonesty,  upon  all  those  social  and  eco- 
nomic conditions  which  are  of  vital  importance  to 
the  world  at  present.  Of  this  kind  of  story  the 
magazines  are  full.  It  is  popular,  and  justly  so. 
"The  writer  must  be  in  touch  with  the  thought 
and  feeling  of  the  public  at  any  given  time.  ...  If 
what  he  writes  is  worth  anything,  it  must  help  the 
pubUc  to  think  out  the  problems  which  are  actually 
before  it.  .  .  .  What  people  like  best  is  to  know  of 
something  that  falls  in  naturally  with  their  own  lives, 
and  consciously  or  unconsciously,  helps  them  in  a 
practical  way  to  live.  Unless  it  really  touches  their 
interests  it  counts  for  little."  ^ 

Then  there  is  the  story  of  a  special  class  —  the 
story  of  a  certain  locality,  of  a  certain  section,  even 
of  a  business  or  industry.  In  these,  the  aim  is  faith- 
fully to  depict  the  individual  characteristics  belong- 
ing to  such  a  class  or  to  such  a  locality.  This  land 
is  so  broad  that  it  has  allowed  people  to  develop 
under  many  different  environments,  each  of  which 
has  its  own  distinct  type.  Thus  we  have  had  Short- 
story  writers  for  New  England,  for  the  extreme 
south,  for  the  middle  south,  for  New  York,  for  Cali- 
fornia and  the  gold-seekers,  for  the  middle  west, 
for  the  southwest,  for  the  north.^     Scarcely  a  region 

1  Shcrwin  Cody,  Slori;  Writing  and  Journalism,  p.  106. 

2  For  an  interesting  discussion  of  this  kind  of  story  see  The 
American  Short-slonj,  by  Elias  Lieberman. 


THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY  25 

but  has  had  its  spokesman.  Then  there  are  the 
stories  of  mining  regions  and  of  the  kimber  camps. 
Under  this  type,  too,  are  stories  devoted  to  a  profes- 
sion, —  medicine,  law,  teaching,  the  ministry,  and 
business. 

Not  only  is  there  the  story  of  some  special  class  or 
locaUty,  but  the  story  of  a  special  mood  or  emotion. 
Here  are  classed  the  horror  story,  the  story  of  pathos, 
the  purely  humorous  story,  the  love  story.  These 
stories  depend  much  on  the  defmiteness  of  the  single 
impression.  Beginners  are  liable  to  one  of  two  mis- 
takes: either  they  will  over-emphasize  the  emotion 
till  it  becomes  ridiculous  or  melodramatic  and 
unnatural,  or  they  will  dilute  it  till  it  is  as  flatly 
tasteless  as  a  dish  of  unsalted  mush.  Stories  of 
emotion  must  be  handled  with  restraint. 

No  one  should  leave  out  of  this  list  the  delight  of 
the  small  boy  —  the  adventure  story  in  which  "the 
interest  of  the  reader  centers  in  what  the  characters 
do  instead  of  in  what  they  are."  ^  Here  may  be 
classed  stories  of  railroad  wrecks,  of  aeroplane  flights, 
of  strange  escapes  from  fire  and  flood,  of  robberies, 
of  tramp  life,  or  of  bear-hunts.  One  might  class 
here,  also,  the  stories  depending  on  invention,  —  on 
wireless  telegraphy,  for  example,  —  or  on  some  un- 
known invention  wholly  in  the  mind  of  the  writer, 
whereby  he  is  enabled  to  accomplish  some  wonder- 
ful feat.  These  stories  are  ordinarily  what  have  been 
called  incident  stories  as  contrasted  with  situation 
stories.     In  the  adventure  story,  one  must  be  careful 

'  J.  Berg  Escnwcin,  Studijing  the  Shorl-slonj,  p.  4. 


26  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

that  the  Short-story  does  not  degenerate  into  a  tale 
through  the  relation  of  a  succession  of  thrilling 
incidents. 

The  story  of  symbolism  was  in  use  long  before 
the  modern  Short-story  came  to  be  recognized. 
Its  age,  however,  has  made  it  no  less  amenable  to 
Short-story  form.  Here  belong  the  parable  and 
the  allegory,  both  of  which  are  especially  designed 
to  teach  "utilitarian  or  spiritual  truths."  Each 
form  has  its  advantages.  The  actors  of  the  allegory 
are  more  individual  than  those  of  the  parable. 
"But  although  more  individual,  the  allegory  is  less 
human  than  the  parable;  for  the  happenings  of 
the  parable  are  always  probable,  while  those  of  the 
allegory  may  be  probable,  improbable,  or  so  fantas- 
tic as  to  be  wholly  impossible.^  "  The  difficulty 
in  all  stories  of  symbolism  is  that  of  keeping  the 
moral  in  due  subjection.  It  is  as  hard  to  keep  the 
point  of  a  story  covered  by  symbol  as  it  is  to  keep 
a  lively  kitten  hidden  in  a  basket.  The  moral  may 
be  suggested;  it  should  not  be  directly  stated.  The 
point  may  be  all  right,  but  bald  didacticism  has 
gone  out  of  style.  People  generally  prefer  their 
sermons  straight.  In  a  story,  they  do  not  wish  the 
lesson  to  be  too  obvious.  They  wish  to  feel  that 
whatever  lesson  there  is  lurking  underneath  a  story 
has  been  found  by  their  own  superior  interpretative 
powers. 

Not  every  story,  need  be  didactic,  yet  every  story 
should  aim  to  have  a  worthy  purpose,  be  it  to  enter- 

'  Harriott  Ely  Pansier,  Types  of  Prose  Narratives,  p.  117. 


THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 


6 


tain  or  lo  instruct.  "The  author  is  bound  to  inter- 
pret, else  hterature  were  as  soulless  as  a  photograph. 
He  cannot  escape  interpretation;  for  it  is  only 
because  experience  means  something  to  him  that 
he  cares  to  extend  and  make  it  permanent  by  giving 
it  literary  expression."  ^ 

Perhaps  more  widely  read  at  the  present  time  than 
any  other  form  of  literature,  it  must  be  that  the 
Short-story  has  a  mission.  In  an  inspiring  article 
on  The  Future  of  the  Short-story,  Mr.  E.  C.  Black 
says  that  he  considers  the  Short-story  "a  more 
powerful  antidote  to  the  most  dangerous  tendencies 
in  the  life  of  the  present  day  than  any  of  the  elabo- 
rate schemes  of  social  reform  can  possibly  be."  He 
claims  for  the  Short-story  writers  that  "they  are 
vindicating  the  ideal  element  in  fiction,  for  they 
are  painting  life  as  it  is,  and  painting  it  from  a  point 
of  ethical  and  ideal  insight.  .  .  .  They  are  show^ 
ing  that  human  nature  is,  after  all,  a  noble  thing; 
that  lowly  folk,  bowed  with  labor  and  environed  by 
stern  enough  conditions  of  time  and  place,  may  be, 
like  the  king's  daughter,  all  glorious  within.  .  .  . 
They  are  bringing  man  nearer  man.  .  .  .  They  are 
awakening  men  and  women  to  the  goodness  as  well 
as  to  the  strangeness  and  fascination  of  their  kind. 
.  .  .  They  are  reveahng  the  identity  of  human 
nature."  ^ 

Whether  or  not  Short-story  writers  deserve  this 

»  Albright,  The  Shnrl-sfnn;,  p.  178. 

2  E.    C.   Black,    The   Future  of   the  Shnrt-storif,   Internationol 
Monthly,  1:  214. 


28  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

praise,  it  is  certain  that  they  may  be  of  inestimable 
vakie  to  mankind.  They  may  cheer  through  em- 
phasis often  upon  the  joyous  and  amusing  in  hfe; 
they  may  instruct  by  giving  people  broadened 
visions  of  the  world;  they  may  inspire  to  worthy 
motive  and  noble  action  by  a  stimulation  of  the  best 
emotions,  by  education  to  thought  upon  "whatso- 
ever things  are  true,  whatsoever  things  are  honor- 
able, whatsoever  things  are  just,  whatsoever  things 
are  pure,  whatsoever  things  are  lovely,  whatsoever 
things  are  of  good  report." 


II 

THE    GERMINAL    IDEA 

More  or  less  indefiniteness  frequently  attaches 
to  the  term  germinal  idea.  It  is  made  synonymous 
with  motive,  theme,  purpose;  with  the  subject  of 
a  story;  and  since  subject  is  loosely  used,  it  may 
even  be  confused  with  title.  It  is  regarded  as 
almost  an  abbreviated  plot;  in  short,  as  the  kernel 
of  the  story.  It  is  true  that  the  germinal  idea  may 
take  any  of  these  forms;  that  it  may  suggest  them 
or  develop  into  them.  Yet  theme,  motive,  sub- 
ject, title,  purpose,  are  not  synonymous,  either 
with  each  other  or  with  germinal  idea.  To  clear 
up  this  vagueness  it  may  be  well  to  explain  each 
of  these  terms  by  illustration  in  a  single  story. 

The  story  is  briefly  as  follows:  Four  outcasts, 
among  whom  as  leader  is  a  well-known  gambler, 
on  their  way  from  one  village  to  another  are  held 
for  a  week  snow-bound  on  a  mountain  on  which 
they  had  unnecessarily  stopped  to  rest.  They  all 
meet  death  before  help  reaches  them.  The  title  of 
this  story  is  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat;  the  subject, 
how  four  outcasts  met  their  death  in  a  mountain 
snow-storm.  The  purpose  is  to  show  the  essential 
soundness  of  heart  which  may  coexist  with  out- 
ward, conventional  badness.  The  theme  is  the  ac- 
ceptance of  chance  as  a  controlling  motive.     Motive 


30  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

is  that  which  controls  the  individual  actor.  The 
Duchess  had  a  motive  in  halting  the  journey;  Oak- 
hurst  had  a  motive  for  wishing  the  continuance  of 
the  journey;  Uncle  Billy  had  a  motive  for  depart- 
ing with  the  mules;  Mother  Shipton  had  a  motive 
in  refusing  to  eat  her  share  of  the  provisions.  The 
germinal  idea  may  have  been  one  of  several  things; 
perhaps  an  incident,  perhaps  an  impression  of  the 
wild  lawlessness  of  a  California  mining  camp,  or 
of  the  calculating  nature  of  John  Oakhurst.  The 
difference  between  these  terms  is,  perhaps,  now 
obvious.  The  title  is  the  name  by  which  a  story 
is  distinguished.  The  subject  is  the  statement,  in 
narrative  terms,  of  what  the  story  is  about.  The 
purpose  is  the  writer's  object  in  telling  a  particular 
story.  The  theme  is  the  basic  fact  upon  which  the 
plot  of  the  story  hinges.  Motive,  sometimes  the  bor- 
rowed musical  term  motif,  is  commonly  used  as  the 
equivalent  of  theme.  Yet  motive  in  this  sense  is  mis- 
leading, for  it  is  apphed  as  well  to  the  unseen  spring 
of  action  for  an  individual.  Motive  is  that  which 
leads  a  certain  person  to  act  in  a  certain  way  under 
certain  given  circumstances.  Yet  the  so-called  mo- 
tive of  a  story  involves  an  interplay  of  motives  of 
the  characters.  Thus  title  and  subject,  purpose,  theme, 
and  motive,  though  allied,  are  essentially  distinct. 

The  germinal  idea  is,  however,  none  of  these. 
It  is  the  bare,  undeveloped  idea  ^  from  which  the 

*  "An  idea  arrives  without  efTort;  a  form  can  only  be  wrought 
out  by  patient  labor."  Henry  van  Dyke,  Preface  to  1901  edi- 
tion of  The  Other  Wise  Man. 


THE   GERMINAL    IDEA  31 

imagination  receives  its  original  tlirill.  It  is  essen- 
tially the  starting-point  of  a  story.  It  is  not  the 
beginning  of  the  actual  plotting  any  more  than  it  is 
of  the  actual  writing.  It  is  that  which  first  awakens 
the  consciousness  of  a  writer  to  a  possible  story. 
It  is  a  mere  suggestion  from  which  a  story  may  in 
lime  grow.  One  cannot  be  sure  that  a  germinal 
idea  will  ever  be  fruitful.  Occasionally,  it  may  be 
utilized  at  once;  frequently  it  will  be  dormant  in 
the  mind  for  weeks  and  then  suddenly  become 
active;  sometimes  it  must  be  coaxed  into  activity 
by  long  reflection.  Rarely  does  the  germinal  idea 
reveal  just  what  sort  of  story  may  result,  since  it 
is  but  seldom  that  a  whole  story  presents  itself  at 
once.  The  germinal  idea  may  or  may  not  be  pre- 
sented along  with  certain  features  of  its  develop- 
ment. It  is  indefinite  in  quantity;  perhaps  a  word, 
possibly  a  whole  plot.  Sometimes,  too,  it  may  prove 
mistaken  seed,  —  very  good,  perhaps,  for  an  essay 
or  a  sketch,  but  unavailable  for  a  Short-story.  Not 
every  germinal  idea  has  its  Short-story,  but  every 
Short-story  has  its  germinal  idea.  For  such  pro- 
ductive idea,  search  must  be  painstakingly  kept  up. 
In  this  chapter,  then,  we  shall  try  to  treat  of  the 
germinal  idea  in  its  variety  and  sources,  and  of  the 
principles  which  will  govern  its  possible  growth 
toward  plot. 

The  beginner's  first  question  is  always.  What  shall 
I  write  about?  It  is,  indeed,  a  vexing  question. 
Seated  comfortably  in  his  chair,  he  stares  for  an 
hour  blankly  at  ceihng  and  side-wall  and  carpet; 


32  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

then  turns  to  gaze  distractedly  out  of  the  window 
into  the  tree-tops.  Or  a  maiden  wistfully  watches 
a  sunset  and  expects  something  astounding  or 
beautiful  to  flash  across  her  mind,  —  a  well-developed 
story  idea.  It  is  httle  wonder  that  these  amateurs 
grumble,  for  they  have  failed  to  look  understand- 
ingly.  Beside  the  one,  there  may  lie,  spread  out  on 
the  floor,  a  daily  newspaper,  and  on  the  front  of 
it  there  may  be  a  cartoon  with  the  picture  of  a 
man  pleading  for  re-election,  and  against  all  charges 
of  indiscretion  and  unfitness  urging  simply,  "I 
want  to  die  in  the  harness."  The  girl,  too,  failed  to 
catch  the  scrap  of  conversation  of  two  women  who 
passed  the  window,  and  she  did  not  notice  the 
pained  expression  on  the  face  of  the  delivery  man 
as  he  hurried  around  the  house.  There  is  no  re- 
pository in  ceiling  or  carpet,  in  sunset  or  tree-tops, 
from  which  the  aspiring  young  Short-story  writer 
may  draw  at  will.  He  may  not  scrutinize  a  cata- 
logue and  then  order  C.O.D.  ten  pounds  of  Early 
Grand  Success  Short-story  seeds.  These  seeds  are 
free  to  him  who  seeks  them  with  open  eyes  and 
zealous  carefulness,  for  they  are  scattered  all  about 
him. 

If,  then,  the  writer  will  train  himself  in  thoughtful- 
ness  and  observation,  he  will  soon  have  story-germs 
of  all  kinds.  An  incident,  an  imagined  situation, 
a  statement  of  abstract  truth,  some  title,  some 
passing  impression,  —  any  one  of  these  may  serve 
as  a  germinal  idea.  Although  the  usual  method  of 
finding  story-germs  may  vary  for  different  people, 


THE   GERMINAL   IDEA  33 

perhaps  the  most  frequent  story-germ  for  all  people 
alike  is  incident.  It  appeals  because  it  is  already 
narrative.  To  imagine  its  story  possibilities  is 
generally  easier  than  to  see  possibilities  in  some- 
thing which  does  not  of  itself  make  a  narrative 
appeal.  This  incident  may  be  some  personal  ex- 
perience or  the  experience  of  a  friend;  it  may  be 
actual  fact;  it  may  be  an  imagined  occurrence;  it 
may  be  a  suggestive  historical  event  or  incident  — 
such  as  the  hanging  of  a  spy  during  the  Civil  War, 
or  the  quelling  of  a  riot  on  a  city  street. 

Situations  real  or  imagined,  too,  are  frequently 
story-germs.  These  situations  may  be  simply 
expressed  in  the  abstract  with  the  character  a  man, 
a  woman,  a  child;  or  they  may  regard  some  definite 
person  under  certain  definite  circumstances.  Haw- 
thorne used  both  sorts,  yet  usually  his  situations 
were  indefinite.  A  few  chosen  from  his  American 
Note-Books  will  serve  as  examples: 

"An  old  looking-glass.  Somebody  finds  out  the 
secret  of  making  all  the  images  that  have  been 
reflected  in  it  pass  back  again  to  its  surface." 

"A  partially  insane  man  to  believe  himself  the 
Provincial  Governor  or  other  great  official  of  Massa- 
chusetts.    The  scene  might  be  the  Province  House." 

"A  company  of  persons  to  drink  a  certain  medic- 
inal preparation,  which  would  prove  a  poison  or  the 
contrary  according  to  their  different  characters." 

"Some  man  of  powerful  character  to  command 
a  person,  morally  subjected  to  him,  to  perform 
some   act.     The   commanding  person   suddenly   to 


34  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

die;  and  for  all  the  rest  of  his  life,  the  subjected  one 
continues  to  perform  that  act." 

"A  father  confessor  —  his  reflections  on  charac- 
ter, and  the  contrast  of  the  inward  man  with  the 
outward,  as  he  looks  around  on  his  congregation, 
all  whose  secret  sins  are  known  to  him." 

"A  person  to  be  the  death  of  his  beloved  in  trying 
to  raise  her  to  more  than  mortal  perfection;  yet 
this  should  be  a  comfort  to  him  for  having  aimed 
so  highly  and  holily."  In  this  situation,  one  recog- 
nizes the  fmished  story,  The  Birthmark. 

"Two  persons  to  be  expecting  some  occurrence, 
and  watching  for  the  two  principal  actors  in  it,  and 
to  find  that  the  occurrence  is  even  then  passing, 
and  that  they  themselves  are  the  two  actors." 

"Two  persons,  by  mutual  agreement,  to  make 
their  wills  in  each  other's  favor,  then  to  wait  im- 
patiently for  one  another's  death,  and  both  to  be 
informed  of  the  desired  event  at  the  same  time. 
Both,  in  most  joyous  sorrow,  hasten  to  be  present 
at  the  funeral,  meet,  and  find  themselves  hoaxed." 

"A  change  from  a  gay  young  girl  to  an  old  woman; 
the  melancholy  events,  the  effects  of  which  have 
clustered  around  her  character,  and  gradually  im- 
bued it  with  their  influence  till  she  becomes  a  lover 
of  sick-chambers,  taking  pleasure  in  receiving  dying 
breaths  and  in  laying  out  the  dead;  also  having  her 
mind  full  of  funeral  reminiscences,  and  possessing 
more  acquaintances  beneath  the  burial  turf  than 
above  it." 

Hawthorne's  story  situations  were  of  the  morbid 


THE    GERMINAL   IDEA  35 

and  the  fanciful.  In  that  respect  they  are  not  good 
examples  for  the  beginner,  who  would  almost  surely 
make  a  failure  of  them.  Yet  they  serve  to  show 
how  slight  may  be  the  germinal  idea  upon  which 
a  story  may  be  constructed.  To  develop  a  story 
based  upon  a  bare  situation  requires  a  strong  crea- 
tive imagination. 

Simple  impressions,  likewise,  of  character,  of 
action,  or  of  setting  may  be  germinal  ideas.  So 
definitely  does  character  write  itself  in  one's  appear- 
ance that  a  face  may  stir  one's  narrative  imagina- 
tion. A  kindly  open  face  may  suggest  one  thing; 
a  pinched,  pale,  but  kindly  face  another;  and  a  dark, 
lowering  countenance  and  restless  eyes,  yet  another. 
Each  one  of  us,  however  young  and  inexperienced, 
has  seen  some  faces,  perhaps  in  the  wai ling-room 
of  a  railroad  station,  which  have  remained  dis- 
tinctly in  memory  and  have  more  than  once  chal- 
lenged the  imagination.  Perhaps  it  may  have  been 
the  face  of  a  nun,  or  of  a  tavern-keeper,  of  a  peddler, 
or  of  a  woman  whose  eyes  had  gazed  so  long  upon  a 
forest  lake  that  they  seemed  to  reflect  its  blueness 
and  its  dancing  wildness.  A  person's  mannerisms, 
his  mode  of  dressing,  his  carriage  might  all  suggest 
stories.  For  instance,  a  student  who  walked  with 
head  erect  and  eyes  always  directed  ahead,  whose 
feet  seemed  always  to  be  placed  precisely  on  the  same 
two  rows  of  bricks  on  the  walk,  who  always  turned 
corners  sharply,  might  suggest  to  his  associates 
a  person  who  could  scarcely  cope  with  any  great 
change.     Imagine    that    person    then    facing    some 


36  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

decided  change  and  a  story  would  result.  Watch 
a  person's  dealings  with  a  clerk  in  a  store,  notice 
passing  remarks,  and  one  will  often  gain  vivid  im- 
pressions of  character  which  may  be  fruitful  for 
stories.  "A  face  seen  in  a  crowd,  gossip  overheard  in 
a  tavern,  a  conversation  at  a  street  door,  the  revela- 
tions of  hostile  eyes  in  meeting  or  parting,  the 
sudden  passing  of  insignificant  men  and  women 
across  the  beam  of  his  questing  searchhght  —  these 
are  enough  to  excite  his  imagination,  to  start  the 
wheels  of  fantasy;  and  if  he  will  but  continue  to 
see  vividly  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  life,  and  to 
report  truthfully  what  he  sees,  he  need  never  lack 
material  for  the  warp  and  woof  of  the  stories  he 
can  spin."  ^ 

An  impression  may  be  of  setting.  The  setting 
itself  might  be  of  use  in  a  story,  but  it  might  simply 
create  an  impression.  A  large  hotel  set  in  beautiful 
grounds  at  a  summer  resort  is  deserted.  Stacks  of 
dishes  stand  on  the  tables,  doors  are  ajar,  beds  are 
thrown  open,  but  left  unmade,  a  bottle  of  whisky, 
half-used,  stands  in  a  cupboard,  dishes  of  dried-up 
ice-cream  are  left  on  stands  in  the  hallways,  the 
registry  book  lies  on  the  desk,  the  window-shades 
are  not  drawn.  This  setting  might  or  might  not  be 
used  in  a  story,  but  undoubtedly  it  stirs  one's  imag- 
ination. Instinctively  one  asks,  What  happened 
here?  On  the  other  hand,  Stevenson  was  impressed 
by  the  wildness  of  the  sea  and  rocks  in  Sandag  Bay; 
from  the  impression   he   created    The  Merry  Men. 

1  W.  J.  Dawson  (1909),  North  American  Review,  190:  p.  805. 


THE   GERMINAL   IDEA'  37 

The  setting  became  a  vital  part  of  his  story,  not 
just  a  stimulation  to  the  imagination. ^  In  ^l  Gossip 
on  Romance,  Stevenson  has  said:  "One  thing  in  life 
calls  for  another;  there  is  a  fitness  in  events  and 
places.  The  sight  of  a  pleasant  arbour  puts  it  in 
our  mind  to  sit  there.  One  place  suggests  work, 
another  idleness,  a  third  early  rising  and  long  ram- 
bles in  the  dew.  The  effect  of  night,  of  any  flowing 
water,  of  lighted  cities,  of  the  peep  of  day,  of  ships, 
of  the  open  ocean,  calls  up  in  the  mind  an  army  of 
anonymous  desires  and  pleasures.  Something,  we 
feel,  should  happen;  we  know  not  what,  yet  we 
proceed  in  quest  of  it.  And  many  of  the  happiest 
hours  of  life  fleet  by  us  in  this  vain  attendance  on 
the  genius  of  the  place  and  moment.  .  .  .  Some 
places  speak  distinctly.  Certain  dank  gardens 
cry  aloud  for  a  murder;  certain  old  houses  demand 
to  be  haunted;  certain  coasts  are  set  apart  for  ship- 
wreck. Other  spots  again  seem  to  abide  their 
destiny,  suggestive  and  impenetrable,  'miching 
mallecho.'  The  inn  at  Burford  Bridge  with  its 
arbours  and  green  garden  and  silent,  eddying  river 
.  .  .  still  seems  to  wait  the  coming  of  the  appropriate 
legend.  Without  these  ivied  walls,  behind  these 
old  green  shutters  some  further  business  smoulders, 
waiting  for  its  hour.  The  old  Hawes  Inn  at  the 
Queen's  Ferry  makes  a  similar  call  upon  my  fancy. 

'■  Hawthorne  realized  clearly  the  value  of  setting  as  a  ger- 
minal idea.  Here  again  is  one  of  his  notes:  "The  scene  of  a 
story  or  sketch  to  be  laid  within  the  light  of  a  street  lantern; 
the  time,  when  the  lamp  is  near  going  out;  and  the  catastrophe 
to  be  simultaneous  with  the  last  flickering  gleam." 


38  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

...  So  it  is  with  names  and  faces;  so  it  is  with 
incidents  that  are  idle  and  inconckisive  in  them- 
selves, and  yet  seem  like  the  beginning  of  some 
quaint  romance,  which  the  all-careless  author  leaves 
untold.  How  many  of  these  romances  have  we  not 
seen  determine  at  their  birth;  how  many  people 
have  met  us  with  a  look  of  meaning  in  their  eye, 
and  sunk  at  once  into  trivial  acquaintances;  to 
how  many  places  have  we  not  drawn  near,  with 
express  intimations  —  'here  my  destiny  awaits  me' 
—  and  we  have  but  dined  there  and  passed  on!  I 
have  lived  both  at  the  Hawes  and  Burford  in  a 
perpetual  flutter,  on  the  heels,  as  it  seemed,  of 
some  adventure  that  should  justify  the  place;  but 
though  the  feehng  led  me  to  bed  at  night  and  called 
me  again  at  morning  in  one  unbroken  round  of 
pleasure  and  suspense,  nothing  befell  me  in  either 
worth  remark.  The  man  of  the  hour  had  not  yet 
come;  but  some  day,  I  think,  a  boat  shall  put  off 
from  the  Queen's  Ferry,  fraught  with  a  dear  cargo, 
and  some  frosty  night  a  horseman,  on  a  tragic  errand, 
rattle  with  his  whip  upon  the  green  shutters  of  the 
inn  at  Burford." 

Again,  the  germinal  idea  may  be  a  mood,  a  pass- 
ing fancy,  a  contrast  of  some  kind,  an  illustration, 
even  a  name  appropriate  to  a  main  character.  A 
title  may  come  to  one  with  suggestive  force  and 
demand  for  itself  a  fitting  story,  for,  as  we  shall  see 
later,'  every  title  should  be  to  a  certain  degree  sug- 
gestive of  the  story  it  heads.  To  some  minds,  the 
'  For  the  full  discussion  of  title  see  chapter  \T. 


THE   GERMINAL   IDEA  39 

title  is  frequently  the  story-germ;  others  make  it 
even  the  last  touch  in  the  building  of  a  story.  The 
bare  statement  of  a  truth;  a  proverb;  perhaps,  a 
moral;  the  theme,  which  is  the  very  heart  of  a  story, 
may  at  times  appear  as  germinal  ideas.  These 
occur,  however,  not  at  all  frequently,  and  with  good 
reason;  for  a  truth  or  proverb  is  a  summation  of 
experience,  not  an  inspiration  to  experience.  It 
may  enforce  by  causing  reflection,  but  it  rarely 
stirs  the  imagination  creatively.  A  proverb  would 
have  to  be  analyzed  into  its  facts  before  it  could 
begin  to  take  shape  as  a  story.  To  use  it  as  a  ger- 
minal idea  seems  a  little  like  the  process  of  pulling 
an  alarm-clock  to  pieces  for  the  sheer  joy  of  putting 
it  together  again.  Yet  to  some,  even  these  abstrac- 
tions might  prove  valuable  —  particularly  to  those 
whose  aim  is  to  teach  a  lesson  or  point  a  moral. 

Experience  and  reading  are  the  two  great  sources 
of  material.  Under  experience,  one  should  include 
not  only  that  which  is  actual  and  personal,  but  that 
which  is  observed.  If  one  is  to  write,  one  must  see. 
It  is  true  here  as  elsewhere  that  "familiarity  breeds 
contempt."  One  is  generally  on  the  lookout  for 
the  striking  and  interesting  away  from  home. 
Diaries  are  full  of  such  records.  Yet  rarely  does  one 
notice  the  things  that  are  easily  under  one's  eye. 
Their  nearness  seems  commonly  to  presuppose 
insignificance.  The  Short-story  writer,  neverthe- 
less, "gets  his  material  from  nature  and  human 
life,"  ^  which  are  just  as  true  and  interesting  in  the 

1  Charity  Dye,  The  Story-Teller's  Art,  p.  21. 


40  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

spot  where  he  Uves,  in  the  business  in  which  he  is 
occupied,  as  they  would  be  in  a  cannibal-inhabited 
island  on  the  far  side  of  the  world.  Everywhere 
man  is  contending,  whether  with  his  fellow-man, 
or  with  nature,  or  with  himself.  One  cannot 
always  witness  the  struggle,  but  one  can  watch  the 
effects,  can  study  the  motives,  and  note  the  forces 
gathering  for  the  conflict. 

"Queer  things  are  happening  all  around  us,  if  we 
have  eyes  to  see  them  as  queer  or  interesting  events."  ^ 
This  power  to  see  and  understand  may  be,  indeed 
must  be,  developed  until  the  writer  becomes  almost 
a  magnet  for  Short-story  ideas.  His  imagination 
must  become  so  sensitive  that  even  commonplaces 
will  set  him  to  thinking  in  a  narrative  direction,  and 
this  can  happen  only  when  the  writer  moves  in  the 
midst  of  life  and  responds  sympathetically  to  life's 
emotions.  He  must  be  in  tune.  "In  the  very  be- 
ginning of  his  work,  then,  the  story-writer  must  lay 
his  senses  open  to  the  world  about  him.  He  must 
observe  the  speech  and  actions  of  his  fellow-men, 
study  their  expressions,  reflect  upon  their  character, 
sympathetically  interpret  motives,  leaping  over  the 
bridge  of  personality  and  making  common  cause  with 
other  people's  feelings.  And  eventually  he  must  be 
able  to  reproduce  on  the  stage  of  his  own  mind 
something  of  that  wonderful  interaction  by  which 
we  human  beings  are  woven  and  interwoven  into  the 
complex  web  of  humanity."  ^     "All  the  earth  is  full 

»  Shcrwin  Cody,  Story-writing  and  Journalism,  pp.  40-41. 
2  Albright,  The  Short-story,  p.  17. 


THE   GERMINAL   IDEA  41 

of  lales  to  him  who  listens  and  does  not  drive  away 
the  poor  from  his  door.  The  poor  are  the  best  of 
tale-tellers;  for  they  must  lay  their  ear  to  the  ground 
every  night."  ^ 

Much  of  one's  personal  experience,  also,  is  rich  as 
a  seed-plot  of  germinal  ideas.  Experience,  be  it 
crucial  or  trivial,  is  interesting,  —  at  least,  to  the 
person  who  has  had  it.  One  has  real  emotions  with 
which  to  deal,  undoubted  motives,  actual  events 
whose  causes  may  be  definitely  traced.  An  incident 
itself  may  be  inspiration  enough.  Much,  however, 
of  one's  daily  experience  becomes  suggestive  through 
reflection.  Every  day  we  are  all  turning  over  in 
our  minds  incident  after  incident.  We  change  here 
a  cause,  there  a  motive;  the  outcome  is  different. 
Suddenly  one  starts  in  astonishment;  for  there, 
perhaps,  is  a  story  one  had  never  suspected.  Thus 
even  the  details  may  become  signiflcant  for  material. 
Even  a  dream,  if  vivid  and  remembered,  may  con- 
tain a  germinal  idea.  Suppose  a  person  be  required 
to  serve  a  jail  sentence  in  three-hour  periods,  one 
period  each  day.  It  is  easy  to  see  how,  if  the  sen- 
tence be  long,  the  suffering  of  the  man  enduring  it 
might  be  acute.  This  situation  is,  of  course,  ex- 
tremely improbable.  It  is  but  a  dream  situation, 
yet  it  might  have  narrative  possibilities.  Every  one 
has  some  small  store,  at  least,  of  vivid  and  valuable 
story  material  within  his  own  experience.  One  need 
not  be  a  restless  globe-trotter,  nor  busied  with  many 

•  Kipling,  Preface  to  Life's  Handicap.  Quoted  by  J.  B. 
Esenwein,  Studying  Ihe  Sliorl-story,  p.  148. 


42  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

interests,  to  gain  such  material.  The  man  who 
spends  all  his  years  in  his  native  village,  the  work- 
man who  day  after  day  guides  an  electric  gimlet  in 
a  factory,  may  also  find  in  actual  life  the  germs  of 
possible  stories. 

One  need  not  depend  entirely  upon  experience, 
observed  or  personal,  so  long  as  one  can  read.  The 
sciences,  as  physics,  chemistry,  geology,  psychol- 
ogy, mechanics,  are  rich  in  suggestions  for  stories 
of  strange  and  unusual  phenomena.  History,  es- 
pecially biography,  ought  to  be  valuable  as  source 
material.  Take  in  one  life  all  the  undeveloped 
situations  —  those  which  never  reached  any  definite 
result;  take  the  developed  situations  and  realize 
their  possibilities  in  other  lives  under  utterly  different 
circumstances,  and  one  should  reap  a  harvest  of 
story  material.  Better  than  all  of  these,  however, 
for  the  hunting  of  ideas,  is  the  daily  newspaper. 
Its  supply  is  exhaustless.  There,  one  may  find  an 
actual  incident  such  as  may  be  in  itself  useful,  an 
incident  which  may  suggest  a  situation.  Headlines, 
cartoons,  even  want  advertisements  or  "lost"  notices 
may  be  enough  to  start  ideas.  From  the  first  page 
to  the  last,  at  the  bottom  of  a  page  or  at  the  top,  in 
fine  print  or  in  bold  type  —  anywhere,  except  per- 
haps in  real-estate  and  insurance  notes,  the  obituary 
columns  and  marriage-license  department,  or  in  the 
stock-exchange  and  market  quotings,  germinal  ideas 
may  be  hidden.  Equipped  with  a  newspaper,  even 
a  local  newspaper,  a  notebook,  and  an  imagination, 
one  should  not  suffer  for  lack  of  story-ideas. 


TIIK    GKHMINAL    IDEA  43 

To  gather  story-ideas  is  one  thing;  to  develop  a 
story  from  a  bare  idea  is  quite  another.  From 
among  the  many  ideas  that  present  themselves,  one 
must  be  chosen.  This  one  may  have -several  mani- 
festations; from  it,  several  different  stories  might 
result.  One  must  first  test  the  germinal  idea  for 
its  possible  manifestations  and  then  choose  that  one 
which  will  make  the  most  worthy  story.  One  must 
ask  whether  the  story  might  be  exclusively  of  action, 
of  character,  or  setting;  whether  it  might  allow 
development  into  a  character  story,  an  action  story, 
a  setting  story;  whether  it  might  be  a  psychological 
story,  a  problem  story,  a  story  of  symbolism.  If  the 
germinal  idea  is  a  character  hint,  one  should  decide 
what  sort  of  character  is  to  be  represented.  Could 
any  other  sort  be  suggested  by  this  idea?  In  what 
ways  would  the  character  be  revealed?  In  what 
different  circumstances  might  he  be  placed?  Are 
any  of  these  circumstances  essentially  dramatic; 
that  is,  will  they  yield  a  plot?  Should  the  germinal 
idea  be  an  incident,  one  should  ask  a  different  set 
of  questions.  Is  this  incident  the  basis  of  an  action 
story?  Is  it  significant  of  anything?  Is  it  dramatic? 
Could  it  serve  as  the  main  incident  of  a  story?  Is  it 
perhaps  a  minor  incident  of  some  other  story?  If 
so,  of  what  kind  of  story?  What  sort  of  characters 
would  be  necessary?  Could  it  be  a  character  story 
or  a  story  of  setting?  Thus,  whatever  the  idea,  its 
possible  manifestations  must  be  tested  before  one 
can  conclude  what  is  the  one  best  way  of  telling  the 
story. 


44  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

A  germinal  idea  capable  of  several  different  story 
manifestations  might,  notwithstanding,  fail  to  result 
in  a  worthy  Short-story.  H.  G.  Wells  has  said  that 
a  Short-story  may  be  "as  trivial  as  a  Japanese  print 
of  insects  seen  closely  between  grass  stems  or  as 
spacious  as  the  prospect  of  the  plain  of  Italy  from 
Monte  Alottarone."  The  germinal  idea  may  be 
trivial.  "Yet  the  Short-story  has  been  raised  into 
literature  only  in  those  fortunate  times  when  skill, 
or  the  circumstances  of  the  moment,  have  given  its 
slight  fabric  a  serious  purpose,  a  worthy  substance, 
or  consummate  art.  It  can  be  light,  it  can  be 
graceful,  it  can  be  amusing,  it  can  be  airy.  But 
triviality  kills  it."  ^  In  other  words,  one  must  have 
for  one's  story  a  telling  theme,  —  such  a  theme  as 
bears  closely  on  some  deep-rooted  fact  of  human 
nature.  Without  this  theme  a  story  might  be 
perfect  technically,  yet  fail  to  "capture  the  mind  of 
the  reader"  or  "make  his  heart  really  throb  with 
anxiety  about  the  result."  ^ 

"The  peculiar  note  of  the  Short-story  at  its  best 
is  the  importance  of  the  individual  soul,  be  the 
surroundings  of  the  humblest,  or  the  most  sordid. 
It  is  the  heroism,  the  futility,  the  humor,  the  pathos, 
the  inherent  worth  and  beauty  of  life  in  the  narrowest 
circumstances,  that  are  the  themes  of  the  great 
writers  of  the  Short-story."  ^     Even  though  a  story 

'  Canby,  A  Sludij  of  the.  Shorl-stonj,  pp.  75-6. 
2  Blaisdell,   Composition-Rhetoric,   p.   268. 
»  E.   C.  Black,   The  Future  of  the  Short-story:    International 
Monthly,  1:  205-216  (p.  214). 


THE   GERMINAL    IDEA  45 

may  be  possessed  of  the  glamour  of  the  Orient,  and 
interest  through  its  novelty,  it  must  reflect  the 
sadness  and  the  gladness,  the  hopelessness  and 
optimism  of  human  endeavor,  if  it  would  live  in  the 
hearts  of  men.     It  must  not  be  unimportant. 

The  Short-story  is  limited  in  another  way:  it 
must  be  new  and  striking,  or  no  one  would  ever  care 
to  read  it.  The  first  aim  of  a  magazine  article  is  to 
instruct;  that  of  the  Short-story  is  to  entertain. 
It  may  be  based  on  an  old  theme,  but  it  must  be 
told  in  a  new  way.  People  are  easily  bored;  they 
do  not  care  to  hear  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again  without  variation.  "Hackneyed  subjects  now 
and  then  are  treated  in  so  original  a  manner  as  to 
bring  the  whole  story  above  the  commonplace  level, 
but  that  is  a  performance  too  unusual  for  even  a 
genius  to  dally  with  often.  Editors  and  public 
tired  long  ago  of  the  poor  boy  whose  industry  at 
last  brought  him  the  hand  of  his  employer's  daughter; 
the  pale-faced,  sweet-eyed  young  thing  whose 
heroism  in  stamping  out  the  fire  enabled  her  to  pay 
off  the  mortgage;  the  recovery  of  the  missing  will; 
the  cruel  stepmother;  answering  a  prayer  which 
has  been  overheard;  the  strange  case  of  mistaken 
identity;  honesty  rewarded;  a  noble  revenge;  a 
child's  influence;  and  so  on  to  a  long-drawn-out 
end."  ^  A  Short-story  must  make  one  think.  A 
hackneyed  subject  follows  the  already  deep  groove 
in  one's  brain.  It  cuts  no  new  track.  One's  fingers 
playing  the  scale  of  C  for  the  one  hundredth  time 
1  J.  B.  Esenwein,  Writing  the  Short-story,  pp.  45-6. 


46  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

move  up  the  keyboard  without  the  conscious  direc- 
tion of  the  mind.  If,  however,  one  plays  the  scale 
of  D  major  for  the  first  time  in  contrary  motion,  one 
thinks.  If  a  story  is  to  make  an  impression,  it  must 
be  new  and  striking;   it  must  stimulate  thought. 

Because  a  theme  is  important  and  because  its 
development  must  stimulate  thought,  there  is  no 
reason  that  it  should  stir  up  dispute.  Argumenta- 
tion has  no  part  in  a  story.  It  may  convince  the 
reason;  of  itself  it  will  never  convince  the  feeling. 
Furthermore,  as  A4r.  Pitkin  says:  "Do  not  attempt 
to  interpret  any  matter  which  society  finds  problem- 
atic to-day.  If  the  human  race  has  not  yet  found  a 
clear  answer  to  a  question  of  social  consequence, 
it  is  because  the  question  is  entangled  and  dark,  or, 
at  least,  two-sided.  And  whatever  is  so  cannot  be 
presented  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  that  single 
effect  which  is  the  inahenable  charm  and  right  of  the 
Short-story."  ^  One  might  relate  a  dramatic  war 
incident;  one  should  hesitate,  however,  to  attempt 
to  prove  in  a  Short-story  that  war  should  be  elimi- 
nated. One  might  tell  of  the  appearance  of  a  mouse 
on  the  platform  during  a  woman-suffrage  meeting; 
one  should  not  try  to  show  that  woman-suffrage  is  a 
good  or  an  evil.  One  may  approach  so  close  that 
the  problem  will  be  raised  in  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
but  one  should  not  enter  into  the  problem  itself. 

It  is  but  little  less  dangerous  to  try  to  use  a  trite 
or  disputed  theme  than  it  is  to  try  to  write  about 
something  concerning  which  one  knows  nothing. 
>  Pilkin,  Short-Story  Writing,  p.  58. 


THE   GERMINAL    IDEA  d7 

A  girl  could  rarely  write  a  successful  story  of  politics, 
for  usually  she  lacks  intimate  knowledge.  A  person 
who  had  spent  his  whole  hfe  in  Nebraska  would 
rarely  write  a  successful  story  of  an  ocean  voyage. 
Unless  he  had  read  widely,  and  perhaps  even  if  he 
had,  he  would  be  almost  sure  to  make  absurd  blun- 
ders which  would  betray  his  inexperience.  No  more 
ought  an  Ohioan  without  experience  in  the  moun- 
tains to  try  to  write  a  story  of  the  Rockies  or  of 
Alaska,  An  easterner  generally  makes  his  wild 
west  a  great  deal  too  wild.  If  one  wishes  to  write 
a  story  whose  plot  is  laid  on  the  Sahara  Desert  or  in 
Constantinople,  he  needs  to  be  pretty  sure  that  he 
knows  his  region  before  he  begins.  College  students 
are  living  in  a  unique  environment,  yet  ordinarily, 
instead  of  accepting  the  material  at  hand  and  writing 
of  the  complications  of  college  life,  they  prefer  to 
stretch  their  imaginations  across  states,  if  not 
across  the  length  and  breadth  of  a  continent,  for  the 
sake  of  novelty.  Kipling  wrote  of  India,  Bret  Harte, 
of  Cahfornia,  and  we  all  wish  to  go  and  do  likewise. 
Kipling,  however,  knew  his  India  through  intimate 
experience.  Bret  Harte  knew  his  California.  Therein 
is  a  difference.  If  one  must  write  of  the  unfamiliar, 
one  should  read,  study  his  chosen  environment  until 
he  can  live  there  imaginatively  as  easily  as  he  can  in 
flesh  and  blood  at  home.  Then  he  should  make  the 
environment  as  colorless  as  possible.  He  may  thus 
avoid  glaring  mistakes.  The  same  principle  applies 
to  stories  written  with  an  historical  background. 
They  must  be  handled  carefully,  if  at  all.     After  all. 


48  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

it  is  easier  to  write  of  one's  own  country,  one's  own 
surroundings,  and  one's  own  time. 

The  reader,  however,  enjoys  novelty  —  of  all  sorts; 
novelty  of  treatment,  novelty  of  character,  novelty 
of  incident,  novelty  of  setting.      It  is  true,  of  course, 
that  underneath  all  this  strangeness  he  does  wish  to 
behold  the  sameness  of  human  nature  at  its  root. 
It  is  certain  that  he  hkes  to  be  able  to  say  at  times, 
"I  might  have  done  that,"  or  "I  once  had  an  ex- 
perience something  Hke  that."     He  Hkes  to  see  his 
own  motives  and  manners  mirrored,  just  as  he  boosts 
his  pride  a  Httle  whenever  the  name  of  his  forsaken 
hamlet  is  mentioned  in  a  city  paper.     Yet  famiharity 
may  at  length  grow  tiresome.     We  are  all  interested 
in  what  other  people  are  like,  what  they  are  doing, 
what  strange  adventures  they  have  had.     We  like  to 
know  what  other  people  have  done  that  we  have 
never  succeeded  in  doing,  and,  at  times,  we  like,  as 
did  the  Pharisee,  to  congratulate  ourselves  that  we 
"are  not  as  other  men."     Thus  the  story  depicting 
the  life  and  manners  of  men  and  women  the  like  of 
which  we  have  never  known,  has  a  perennial  interest. 
Kipling  has  said :  "Tell  them  first  of  those  things  that 
thou  hast  seen  and  they  have  seen  together.     Thus 
their  knowledge  will  piece  out  thy  imperfections.   Tell 
them  of  what  thou  alone  hast  seen,  then  what  thou 
hast  heard,  and  since  they  be  children,  tell  them  of 
battles  and  kings,  horses,  devils,  elephants,  and  angels, 
but  omit  not  to  tell  them  of  love  and  such  hke."  ^ 

1  Kipling,    Preface    to   Lijcs   Handicap.     Quoted  by   J.    B. 
Esenwein,  Studying  the  Short-story,  p.  148. 


THE    GERMINAL    IDEA  49 

After  one  has  found  a  story  which  is  not  trivial, 
not  hacl-ineyed,  not  polemic,  but  is  of  genuine  in- 
terest, one  has  yet  to  settle  upon  one's  purpose. 
To  have  a  purpose  in  writing  a  story  is  not  the  same 
as  to  point  a  moral.  Only  when  theme  and  purpose 
merge  so  that  the  one  is  merely  the  expression  of  the 
other  is  the  resulting  story  really  didactic.  For 
instance,  in  the  story  referred  to  at  the  opening  of 
this  chapter,  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  if  Bret  Harte 
had  taken  as  his  purpose  to  show  that  the  acceptance 
of  chance  as  a  controlling  motive  is  sure  to  bring 
disastrous  results,  he  would  have  made  theme  and 
purpose  identical;  his  story  would  have  been  didac- 
tic. Fortunately,  however,  he  did  not  do  this.  His 
theme  and  purpose  are  distinct,  and  a  just  balance 
is  kept  between  them.  A  story  may,  indeed,  allow 
several  purposes,  and  as  the  purpose  varies,  so  also 
will  the  story.  Does  one  care  simply  to  give  a 
humorous  presentation  of  life?  Does  the  story  lend 
itself  to  such  treatment?  Does  one  wish  to  show  a 
contrast  or  to  portray  vividly  the  characteristics  of 
one  locality  or  business?  Or,  does  one  have  a  more 
serious  purpose,  to  show  the  nobility  of  human 
nature  or  the  baseness  to  which  sin  may  lead?  Of 
course,  purpose  may  be  determined  absolutely  by 
the  nature  of  the  story  itself.  If  so,  the  writer 
might  as  well  accept  it,  or  hunt  for  a  new  story-idea. 

At  this  early  stage,  too,  it  is  wise  to  determine,  at 
least  in  a  general  way,  upon  the  single  impression 
that  is  to  be  left  upon  the  reader,  and  upon  the  pre- 
vailing tone  of  the  story:  whether  it  be  of  gloom,  ex- 


50  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

peclancy,  joy;  of  wildness  or  calm;  of  genial  warmth 
and  friendliness;  of  bleakness  and  misfortune;  per- 
haps of  miserliness.  In  choosing  a  single  impression 
or  tone,  it  will  be  necessary  to  take  into  account  its 
acceptabihty  to  the  reader  and  its  adaptability  to 
the  theme.  In  the  matter  of  acceptabihty,  one  must 
depend  on  one's  good  sense  and  general  observation. 
Nowadays,  however,  joy  is  generally  preferred  to 
horror,  and  warmth  of  tone  to  coldness.  By  the 
control  of  adaptability  is  meant  that  the  writer 
must  always  be  guided  by  his  story.  He  cannot 
work  free-handed,  for  the  single  impression  is  always 
determined  by  and  determines  the  climax. 


Ill 

PLOT 

A  STORY  may  be  exceedingly  interesting,  yet, 
unless  it  has  plot,  it  will  never  be  a  Short-story. 
Occasionally,  one  sees  a  garden  where  overgrown 
rose-bushes,  rhubarb  plants,  hollyhocks,  hop-vines, 
and  tiger-hlies  run  riot  over  one  another.  There 
is  no  order,  no  grouping,  no  massing.  Each  plant 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  ignominiously  pitched  from 
the  doorstep  and  had  taken  root  where  it  fell.  Not 
even  has  the  principle  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest 
availed  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos,  for  all  plants 
seem  equally  fit.  The  effect  of  such  planting  is 
unsatisfying  and  bizarre.  One  longs  for  pruning- 
shears  and  a  spade.  The  same  plants  arranged 
without  a  semblance  of  artificiality,  in  an  orderly 
manner,  might  be  of  real,  ornamental  value.  No 
more  does  one  admire  a  house  the  number  of  whose 
owners  can  be  estimated  by  the  number  of  additions 
tacked  on,  one  behind  the  other.  One  admires 
rather  a  house  built  with  unity  according  to  a  har- 
monized plan.  The  Short-story  plot,  though  differ- 
ent from  that  of  the  larger  narrative  forms,  is  none 
the  less  real  and  vital.  It  requires  a  careful  selection 
and  rearrangement  of  materials  for  a  definite  pattern. 
It  is  also  a  working  out  of  the  laws  of  cause  and 


52  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

effect.  It  is  not  a  haphazard  pitching  together  of 
incident  and  character  until  a  fitting  momentous 
event  is  found  with  which  to  finish  off  a  story.  It 
is  not  something  accidental,  but  something  thought 
out  and  prepared  for.  In  it  there  is  represented, 
not  a  succession  of  events,  but  a  series  where  the 
relation  of  each  incident  to  that  which  immediately 
precedes  or  to  that  which  directly  follows  is  clear 
and  necessary.  No  loose  ends  are  allowed;  for  in 
plot  the  weaving  is  compact  and  sure.  Each  event 
comes  in  order,  because  it  grows  logically  out  of  a 
preceding  event.  Each  part  bears  a  distinct  rela- 
tion to  the  whole  and  has  a  definite  work.  Plot  is 
somewhat  like  a  system  of  cogs:  each  part  so  works 
into  the  next  part  that  it  is  actually  necessary  to 
the  movement  of  that  part.  The  value  of  the  whole 
will  be  lost  unless  the  parts  are  consistent  and 
adapted  throughout.  A  plot  is  artistic  just  as  a 
washing-machine  or  a  demonstration  of  a  geometrical 
proposition  is  artistic.  Neither  is  of  itself  burdened 
with  ornament,  but  each  is  artistic  in  so  far  as  it  is 
adapted  for  the  most  complete  service.  For  plot, 
this  service  is  to  attain  through  climax  a  single 
narrative  effect.  Although  but  an  unfilled  outline, 
it  is  essentially  complete  in  itself  —  a  garden  laid 
out  ready  to  receive  its  roses  and  hollyhocks  in  their 
places. 

For  this  reason,  true  stories  rarely  make  of  them- 
selves perfect  plots.  They  must  be  transformed  by 
imagination  and  reason.  A  true  story  is  told  ordi- 
narily because  it  is  in  some  sense  extraordinary. 


PLOT  53 

One  passes  it  over  without  comment,  unless  it  is 
striking  and  unusual.  Now  a  true  story  may  be 
fruitful  as  a  source  of  plot,  yet  in  its  first  form  its 
parts  are  rarely  consistent.  The  law  of  cause  and 
effect  is,  of  course,  working  just  as  truly  in  the 
sphere  of  the  actual  as  it  is  in  the  realm  of  the 
imagined;  yet,  in  the  actual,  causes  are  frequently 
hidden  under  the  mass  of  details  and  irrelevant 
matter.  In  the  imagined  they  have  been  bared, 
and  events  stand  out  in  their  true  relationships. 
A  true  story  might  suppose  a  thoroughly  upright 
man  suddenly  become  an  embezzler.  When  one 
applies  reason  to  this  true-story  idea,  one  can  read- 
ily see  its  absurdity.  A  thoroughly  upright  man 
could  not  be  an  embezzler.  Either  he  must  have 
been  all  the  time  but  feignedly  upright,  or  some 
sudden  change  has  occurred  in  his  character.  When 
one  has  adopted  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  sup- 
positions, one  can  then  develop  a  reasonable  story 
—  ideally  true,  although  not  in  apparent  accord 
with  the  facts  as  reported.  Imagination  fills  in 
what  fact  has  passed  over;  it  supplies  the  hidden 
motives  and  makes  in  the  end  a  complete  and 
consistent  story.  The  true  story  but  startles  and 
leaves  one  with  a  feeling  of  its  incompleteness. 
It  is  often  said  that  fact  may  be  stranger  than 
fiction.  Its  strangeness  may  be  its  peril,  not  its 
hope.  Fact  may  display  no  logical  relation  of  parts; 
fiction  always  does.  To  be  sure,  plot  works  with 
imaginative  material,  but  it  requires  that  this 
material  be  shaped  toward    a   predetermined    end 


54  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

by  the  application  of  reason;  for  tlie  parts  of  the 
story  must  be  always  "logical,  adequate  and  har- 
monious." 

This  plot,  in  the  Short-story,  is  nevertheless 
simple  and  may  be  exceedingly  slight.  The  Short- 
story  deals  with  a  simplification  of  life;  hence, 
complexity  is  foreign  to  its  nature.  Brevity  and 
unity  of  impression  both  seem  practically  impossible 
to  the  complex  plot.  Yet  one  rather  naturally 
associates  complexity  with  any  idea  of  plot  what- 
soever; one  thinks  it  essential.  A  thousand  threads 
are  inextricably  woven  into  the  pattern  of  life. 
Thus,  in  imitation,  the  makers  of  the  novel  and 
the  drama  have  used  various  threads;  they  have 
bound  together  in  one  climax  several  groups  of 
characters,  several  conflicting  actions.  Yet  the 
narrower,  more  restricted  plot  of  the  Short-story 
is  still  a  design  and  involves  an  entanglement  of 
threads.  A  trolling  line  may  become  so  tied  up  in 
ilself  that  an  hour  must  be  spent  in  its  disentangle- 
ment. So  it  is,  also,  in  the  field  of  narrative.  A 
simple  group  of  characters,  comprising  with  inci- 
dent but  a  single  action,  may  be  knotted  together 
in  climax;  each  part  itself  acts  as  a  thread.  The 
result  is  a  plot  not  at  all  inferior  to  that  of  the  larger 
forms.  Simplicity,  instead  of  becoming  a  weakness, 
has  become,  indeed,  the  strength  of  the  Short- 
story  plot.  Where  many  threads  are  entangled, 
one's  mind  becomes  distracted.  Impressions  flicker 
for  a  moment  and  are  gone.  One  starts  along  one 
path,  and,  behold,  one  finds  oneself  hurrying  along 


PLOT  55 

another.  In  the  Short-story,  however,  there  can 
be  no  hesitation,  no  turning  aside  into  new  byways. 
The  effect  is  single  and  more  powerful  than  that  of 
the  complex  plot.  A  tree  with  a  long  tap-root  goes 
deep  into  the  soil,  and  gains  greater  power  than 
does  a  tree  whose  roots  branch  and  rebranch  near 
the  surface.  A  plot  concentrated  on  one  action  is 
sure  to  strike  deep  into  one's  mind. 

Yet,  one  says,  the  simple  plot  is,  at  least,  less 
natural  than  the  broad  plot,  for  it  works  with  events 
in  isolation.  One  must  remember,  however,  that 
the  novelist  sits  down  and  thinks  out  the  ramifica- 
tions of  life,  arranges  innumerable  complications  in 
the  quiet  of  his  study,  disposes  his  characters  in 
arbitrary  ways.  A  man's  life  is,  of  course,  filled 
with  these  complications;  but,  after  all,  a  man 
usually  settles  only  one  question  at  a  time.  He 
does  things  with  a  single  motive  without  taking 
into  consideration  how  his  action  is  going  to  affect 
his  own  life  and  other  lives,  perhaps  years  after. 
He  may  not  live  for  the  present  moment,  but  he 
certainly  lives  in  the  present  moment.  He  is  a 
little  like  gunpowder:  he  goes  off  of  a  sudden  — 
at  a  single  thwack  of  a  hammer.  The  Short-story 
writer  takes  for  granted  that  incidents  and  episodes 
connected,  to  be  sure,  yet  each  separate,  make  up 
the  chain  of  man's  existence.  The  attitudes  of 
the  two  plot-builders  are  essentially  different. 
Each  attitude  is  correct  in  its  own  way.  The  one 
regards  man  as  a  creature  caught  hand  and  foot 
in  the  meshes  of  society;   the  other  sees  him  as  an 


56  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

individual  working  out  through  quick  motive  and 
act  his  own  destiny  and  that  of  society  in  general. 
Both  views  are  equally  true;  but  the  latter  seems 
indeed  the  more  lifelike,  for  it  represents  a  man's 
life  in  stages  each  with  its  own  climax. 

The  essential  of  good  plot  is  climax;  the  materials 
are  character  and  action.  It  is  the  business  of 
plot  to  find  how  these  two  elements  can  be  most 
effectively  played  against  each  other  for  climax. 
The  strength  of  neither  can  be  measured  by  itself, 
for  it  is  estimated  by  its  moving  force,  its  power  in 
conflict.  Character  is  uncertain  until  it  has  met 
an  obstacle.  Action  is  uninteresting  except  as  it 
comes  into  relation  with  men  and  women.  A  hurri- 
cane in  an  uninhabited  part  of  the  earth  does  not 
intimately  concern  us  where  we  dwell.  It  is  mere 
waste  force.  In  the  Short-story,  however,  there 
must  be  no  waste  force.  Character  and  action 
react  against  each  other,  and  the  result  is  climax. 
In  the  progress  of  the  story  the  relationship  of 
character  and  action  is  changed.  Something  must 
happen  to  the  characters,  and  characters  must  do 
something  to  further  or  check  the  action.  There 
must  be  an  interweaving  of  materials,  else  there 
can  be  no  design,  no  plot.  "  In  other  words,  every 
story  whose  excellence  is  generally  admitted  is 
more  than  a  picture  of  character,  more  than  a  good 
complication,  more  than  a  fragment  of  biography, 
and  more  than  an  exciting  episode.  //  is  all  these 
together,  and  in  it  they  are  so  arranged  that  the 
reader  is  surprised  by  what   happens   to  the   hero, 


PLOT  57 

and  thrilled  by  what  the  hero  does  to  each  situation. 
This  thrill  is  the  thrill  of  drama,  only  if  the  hero 
somehow  exhibits  his  human  nature  by  conduct  in 
a  crisis.'"  ^ 

Since  the  focus  of  a  story  is  the  climax,  the  con- 
struction of  a  plot  should  always  begin  there.  If 
one  centers  one's  attention  on  the  climax,  one  can 
be  sure  that  the  intermediate  parts  of  the  design 
will  be  logical.  If  one  starts  at  the  other  end,  one 
cannot  be  so  sure;  for  it  is  easier  to  trace  an  effect 
to  its  cause  than  it  is  to  trace  a  cause  to  its  effect. 
One  should  begin  the  work  of  construction,  then,  with 
climax.  Now,  the  climax  is  very  near  to  the  end 
in  the  Short-story.  It  is  the  point  of  highest  sus- 
pense to  which  everything  has  been  leading.  Its 
effect  would  be  lost,  if  it  were  to  be  followed  by 
extended  conclusions.  In  the  drama,  however, 
the  chmax  is  at  the  middle  of  the  story.  It  is  the 
point  of  contact  of  all  the  several  single  actions. 
From  it,  there  is  a  gradual  untying  towards  a  reso- 
lution at  the  end.  In  the  Short-story,  the  chmax 
and  the  resolution  are  practically  simultaneous. 
There  is  no  need  of  any  extended  untying,  for  the 
complication  is  within  a  single  action.  The  com- 
plication is  not  of  itself  of  sufficient  importance  to 
be  interesting.  Interest  is  all  directed  towards  that 
which  happens  as  a  result  of  complication.  This 
point  of  highest  interest,  this  happening,  this  out- 
come, is  the  climax  of  the  Short-story. 

"But  what  is  the  chmax?  Sometimes,  the  incident 
1  Pitkin,  Short-story  Writing,  p.  28. 


58  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

towards  which  all  the  episodes  led,  which  collected, 
like  a  brass  globe,  all  the  electric  charge  of  emotion, 
thought,  or  vivid  impression  to  be  drawn  from  the 
story.  Sometimes,  and  much  oftenest,  the  situa- 
tion, which  had  been  the  root  and  first  perception  of 
the  tale,  and  now,  in  this  chmax,  was  most  sharply 
revealed.  But  among  those  Short-stories  which 
differ  most  thoroughly  from  ordinary  short  narra- 
tive, or  from  the  novel  with  its  different  view-point, 
a  single  impression,  a  vivid  realization  for  the 
reader  of  that  which  moved  the  author  to  write, 
be  it  incident,  be  it  emotion,  be  it  situation,  this 
is  the  conscious  purpose  of  the  story,  and  this  is  the 
climax."  ^  Yet  every  climax,  be  it  a  single  impres- 
sion or  a  vivid  realization,  must  have  its  outward 
expression.  In  They,  the  climax  is  reached  when 
the  spirit-child  drops  a  kiss  in  the  center  of  the 
man's  outstretched  palm.  It  seems,  indeed,  an  in- 
significant action,  yet  is  a  part  of  the  subtle  atmos- 
phere which  shapes  the  story.  The  real  climax  is, 
however,  not  the  act  of  the  child,  but  the  sudden 
reahzation  of  loss  which  comes  to  the  blind  woman. 
All  in  a  moment,  she  realizes  that  this  man  is  ac- 
corded a  privilege  which  she  with  all  her  love  for 
children  can  never  have,  —  for  she  has  "neither 
borne  nor  lost."  Thus  is  the  climax  stamped  upon 
the  main  character.  It  is  no  less  moving  for  the 
accessory  character.  Up  to  this  time  he  moved 
through  an  atmosphere  full  of  sunshine,  flitting 
shadows,  and  faint  echoes;    he  has  been  enwrapped 

UI.  S.  Canby,  The  Short-story  in  English,  p.  303. 


PLOT  59 

in  the  loveliness  of  mystery.  Now,  in  a  moment 
of  anguish,  his  eyes  are  undimmed;  the  truth 
flashes  across  his  mind  and  he  understands.  The 
act  of  the  spirit-child  marked  indeed  the  climax, 
but  the  climax  was  happening  in  the  hearts  of  the 
characters.  Again,  the  climax  may  be  a  simple 
remark  which  constitutes  a  revelation  or  a  revenge. 
In  Maupassant's  The  Necklace,  it  is  a  single  remark, 
"Why,  my  necklace  was  paste.  It  was  worth  at 
most  only  five  hundred  francs."  It  is  the  last 
crushing  blow  to  Madame  Loisel.  Although  a 
climax  may  be  expressed  in  almost  any  way,  it  is 
always  in  harmony  with  the  nature  of  the  story. 
The  climax  of  a  character  story  will  show  this 
character  in  some  sort  of  crisis.  It  may  be  an 
incident  showing  a  positive  change  in  condition  or 
circumstances,  it  may  be  a  decision,  even  a  thought. 
If  action  predominates,  the  climax  will  be  some 
incident;  if  setting,  then  this  will  rise  to  its  height 
in  climax.  In  short,  climax  and  single  impression 
must  be  in  absolute  harmony. 

The  climax  must  be  prepared  for  by  a  complica- 
tion —  some  obstacle  to  the  uninterrupted  progress 
of  the  story  must  present  itself.  Yet  an  obstacle 
is  not  enough  to  cause  climax.  Suppose  that  one 
were  driving  in  the  country  and  expected  to  reach 
certain  picnic  grounds  at  a  certain  time,  and  sup- 
pose that  just  before  the  end,  one  should  be  con- 
fronted by  a  fence.  This  fence  would  be  an  obstacle 
to  one's  further  progress.  One  might  turn  back 
and   retrace  the  course;    but  then,  one  would  fail 


60  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

to  reach  the  picnic  grounds.  Nothing  would  have 
been  gained.  Suppose,  now,  that  a  gate  should 
be  noticed  in  the  fence  at  this  point.  One  needs 
now  only  to  stop  long  enough  to  fling  it  open  before 
one  continues  the  journey.  The  fence,  in  such  a 
case,  is  no  real  obstacle  at  all;  it  does  not  actually 
ofTer  resistance  to  further  progress;  it  merely  delays 
progress.  Now,  suppose  one  had  the  chance  neither 
of  turning  back  nor  of  passing  through  the  gate. 
The  obstacle  becomes  at  once  real.  Ordinary  modes 
of  procedure  will  avail  not  at  all.  Something  extraor- 
dinary must  happen.  One  will  have  to  break  the 
fence  and  incur  the  wrath  of  the  owner.  In  the 
Short-story,  circumstances  are  much  the  same: 
there  must  be  an  obstacle,  an  unavoidable  obstacle; 
for  there  can  be  no  turning  back  from  a  difficulty 
in  the  path.  The  difficulty  is  a  necessary  part 
of  the  story.  Progression,  too,  rapid  progression 
toward  an  end,  is  necessary.  One  must  always 
move  straight  ahead  in  the  direction  of  the  climax. 
Nor  can  one  be  satisfied  by  finding  an  obstacle 
which  can  be  easily  set  aside.  Such  an  obstacle 
would  create  an  anti-climax.  The  end  would  be 
so  easy  of  attainment  that  it  would  fail  to  arouse 
interest.  There  would  be  no  element  of  real  sus- 
pense, and  without  suspense  there  can  be  no  Short- 
story. 

If  the  obstacle  is  real  and  unavoidable,  it  will 
cause  a  conflict  of  some  kind.  This  is  perfectly 
evident.  If  two  motor-cycles  going  in  opposite 
directions  should,  in  rounding  a  corner,  run  straight 


PLOT  61 

into  each  other,  each  might  be  called  an  obstacle 
for  the  other.  Something  would  be  sure  to 
happen.  One  of  the  motor-cycles  might  escape 
slightly  impaired,  or  be  utterly  smashed.  Both 
might  be  destroyed  and  their  riders  left  un- 
ceremoniously sprawling  in  a  cornfield.  Here  is 
conflict  resulting  in  some  definite  action.  In  the 
Short-story,  however,  when  two  forces  conflict, 
one  does  not  ordinarily  expect  complete  annihila- 
tion of  both.  It  is  not  certain,  however,  that  the 
obstacle  will  always  be  crushed  and  the  story  move 
on  straight  thereafter.  Sometimes  the  obstacle  is 
the  victor  and  the  story  must  move  on  impaired 
to  its  conclusion.  In  this  case  climax  and  con- 
flict coincide.  It  is  always  to  be  borne  in  mind 
that  obstacle  is  not  the  conflict,  but  the  cause  of 
conflict.  This  obstacle  may  be  a  character,  — 
since  action  may  result  from  character  as  well  as 
from  incident.  Anything  that  for  the  moment  gets 
in  the  way  of  the  free  course  of  the  story  is  an 
obstacle  and  gives  rise  to  a  conflict. 

The  next  requirement  is  that  one  construct  cir- 
cumstances which  win  lead  up  to  complication  and 
climax  effectively.  Everything  in  the  Short-story 
plot  must  have  movement.  Here  is  no  chance  to 
gather  flowers  by  the  wayside.  Rapidity,  direct- 
ness, governs  everything  that  enters  into  plot. 
The  circumstances,  therefore,  must  be  such  that 
the  complication  will  be  the  natural,  the  logical 
result.  Many  details  which  will  further  the  effect 
may  be  worked  in  harmoniously  in  the  later  struc- 


62  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

ture;  but  in  the  plot,  one  is  eager  to  trace  only  the 
workings  of  cause  and  effect  that  lead  not  to  the 
emotional  impression,  but  to  the  technical,  mechani- 
cal climax.  Thus,  in  a  few  rapid  sketch  strokes, 
one  must  set  forth  definitely  that  which  leads  to 
the  complication.  In  building  a  story,  it  is  im- 
portant here  to  be  sure  that  the  circumstances  are 
strong  enough  actually  to  justify  the  complication. 
Of  course,  the  circumstances  may  of  themselves 
have  several  stages.  There  may  be  some  charac- 
ter trait  either  in  the  main  character  or  in  the  sub- 
ordinate which  may  give  rise  to  an  event  from  which 
in  turn  the  circumstances  evolve.  The  event  giv- 
ing rise  to  the  circumstances  might  be  but  a  single 
word,  an  apparently  unimportant  decision,  yet 
generally  it  points  backward  to  some  significant 
characteristic. 

Perhaps  the  first  question  after  one  has  deter- 
mined the  climax  is  in  regard  to  the  characters  of 
the  story.  There  will  have  to  be  a  main  character. 
Will  a  man  or  a  woman  be  more  appropriate  to  the 
action?  What  sort  of  person  shall  he  be,  what  his 
general  nature,  what  his  usual  business?  From 
what  social  class  shall  he  be  drawn?  Approximately, 
what  should  be  his  age?  Shall  he  be  simply  a  color- 
less figure  in  the  action,  or  shall  he  be  shown  as 
an  individual  with  peculiar  characteristics?  Such 
questions  are  sure  to  occur  immediately  to  the 
Short-story  writer.  To  answer  them,  one  examines 
the  climax,  and,  as  before,  the  theme  and  purpose. 
With    these   aids    and    common-sense,    one   should 


PLOT  63 

have  little  trouble  in  determining  on  a  principal 
character.  This  chief  actor  may  be  even  an  animal 
or  a  thing.  .007,  in  Kipling's  story  of  this  name,  is 
a  powerful  locomotive.  While  retaining  the  charac- 
teristics of  a  thing,  it  is,  however,  endowed  with  a 
sort  of  personality.  Where  animals  or  things  be- 
come main  characters,  they  are  always  personified 
and  given  human  motives;  they  are  moved  by 
selfishness,  pride,  or  ambition,  just  as  are  men  and 
women.  In  a  character  story,  the  traits  of  the  chief 
personage  may  actually  further  the  movement.  In 
such  a  case,  one  needs  to  determine  carefully  the 
nature  and  habits  of  the  main  character.  It  is 
essential  that  the  characters  should  be  true  to  the 
action,  and  in  every  respect  consistent  with  their 
assigned  parts.  Setting  may  carry  with  it  certain 
associations,  and  so  may  characters.  However 
easy  it  may  be  to  imagine  a  cook  brandishing  a 
carving  knife,  one  would  scarcely  expect  to  see  a 
seamstress  gripping  a  revolver.  Seamstresses  might 
do  for  "hard  luck"  stories  or  for  love  stories,  but 
they  would  surely  be  ugly  ducklings  in  a  sea-faring 
story.  Characters  must  be,  above  all,  appropriate 
to  the  action;  they  must  be  chosen  because  they 
are  the  characters  best  adapted  for  the  purposes  of 
the  story. 

Somehow,  too,  every  character,  to  be  individual, 
must  be  unique.  Mere  conformity  to  a  type  will 
not  sufTice.  To  be  sure,  one  wishes  to  see  a  type 
represented,  but  yet  more,  to  see  an  individual. 
Mere  conformity  will  not  mark  out  a  person  from 


64  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

a  crowd.  A  thief  might  steal  apples,  but  the  fact 
that  he  had  stolen  apples  does  not  in  itself  distin- 
guish this  thief  from  a  thousand  others  who  may 
have  done  the  same  thing.  Show  the  sly  method 
this  thief  had  of  stealing  the  apples,  and  you  have 
revealed  all  his  innate  trickiness;  you  have  repre- 
sented an  individual.  A  main  character  must  do 
something  uniquely  expressive  of  his  own  person- 
ality, else  we  shall  never  believe  in  him  as  an  actual 
individual.  If  a  character  is  only  consistent  in  his 
action,  then  one  cannot  be  sure  of  him.  He  has 
not  been  thoroughly  tested.  After  he  has  been 
tested,  then  one  knows  thoroughly  well  what  he  is 
and  what  he  will  do.  Naturally,  then,  the  plot- 
builder  will  have  no  superficial  acquaintance  with 
his  characters.  He  must  know  them  through  and 
through,  must  have  an  instinctive  feeHng  for  what 
they  would  or  would  not  do,  in  order  to  make  them 
appear  not  merely  consistent,  but  unique. 

Rarely  will  one  character  suffice  for  a  story. 
Utter  soliloquies  are  rare  and  unnatural.  Men 
do  not  struggle  often  to  themselves.  There  are 
always  spectators,  sympathizers,  opponents,  or 
fellow-combatants.  These,  too,  have  their  share  in 
making  a  story  possible;  few  of  them  will  be  nec- 
essary to  the  plot  movement  itself.  An  accessory 
character  may  even  be  the  obstacle.  Certain  effects 
or  conditions  of  character  are  often  best  exhibited 
in  contrast  with  certain  other  characters.  If  a 
character  is  played  against  another  of  the  same 
general   type,   he  will  show  to  best  advantage  his 


PLOT  65 

own  individuality,  his  strengtli,  and  his  weakness. 
Then,  again,  it  may  be  well  to  contrast  altogether 
difTerent  types.  Sometimes  an  additional  char- 
acter is  necessary  in  order  that  a  story  may  be  more 
effectually  linked  to  time  and  circumstances.  Not  all 
accessory  characters,  however,  will  ordinarily  appear 
in  the  bald  plot  statement;  some  appear  properly 
only  in  the  fully  developed  plot  —  the  structure. 

In  the  plot  statement,  also,  there  may  or  may  not 
be  expressed  the  environment.  No  matter  what 
the  story,  it  must  happen  somewhere,  and  it  must 
have  some  definite  time  setting.  Of  course,  some 
stories  might  happen  anywhere.  Rather  frequently, 
however,  the  environment  has  developed  characters 
of  a  certain  special  type,  and  the  things  that  the 
characters  do,  or  the  things  that  are  done  to  them, 
could  happen  only  in  this  one  environment.  One 
of  the  first  matters,  then,  to  be  determined  about 
a  Short-story  is  just  this:  Does  the  environment 
really  affect  the  plot  movement?  If  so,  one  must 
settle  immediately  time  and  place.  In  the  Short- 
story,  time  has  no  definite  limits.  Usually  the 
time  is  not  more  than  a  day  or  two.  It  may  be  a 
few  minutes  or  an  hour.  Sometimes,  it  extends  over 
practically  a  whole  life.'  One  can  watch  a  certain 
condition  of  mind  growing  throughout  a  whole  hfe, 
to  find  its  climax  of  intensity  or  change  only  at 

1  Two  examples  arc  Edward  Everett  tiale's  The  Man  With- 
out A  Country  and  August  Strindbcrg's  The  Stone  Man.  The 
latter  is  now  available  in  Velma  Swanston  Howard's  authorized 
translation,  Library  Edition,  issued  by  Stewart  and  Kidd  Co., 
Cincinnati,  Ohio. 


66  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

the  last.  Only  one  thread  of  cause  and  effect  is 
traced,  and  the  narrative  for  all  its  passage  of  time 
is  but  a  Short-story.  The  same  principle  holds 
true  with  reference  to  place.  One  part  of  a  story 
might  happen  in  New  Orleans,  another  part  in  the 
Canadian  woods.  Unity  of  time  and  place  are 
not  essential  to  a  Short-story.  The  essential  is 
that  the  environment  be  natural  and  appropriate. 
It  must  fit  into  its  place  in  the  plot  machinery. 

Several  illustrations  may,  perhaps,  assist  in 
showing  just  what  constitutes  a  good  plot.  Of 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich's  whimsical  story,  Marjorie 
Daw,  the  plot  is  as  follows:  Wishing  to  relieve  for 
his  friend  the  tedium  of  a  temporary  disablement, 
a  young  man  writes  him  suggestively  of  a  girl,  — 
wholly  imaginary,  —  across  the  street,  and  is  dumb- 
founded by  the  result,  —  a  case  of  passionate  love 
for  the  unseen  charmer  and  the  sudden  coming  of 
the  convalescent  to  see  and  win  her.  The  plot  is 
simple,  it  is  slight.  The  main  character  is  evidently 
the  disabled  friend.  The  second  character  is  really 
a  part  of  the  machinery  of  plot.  The  story  could 
not  move  without  him,  yet  he  is  a  comparatively 
colorless  individual.  He  must  be  displayed  with 
just  enough  character  to  be  capable  of  carrying  on 
a  ruse  such  as  this  is.  What  of  Marjorie  Daw, 
after  whom  the  story  is  named?  She  is  not  a  char- 
acter at  all,  —  but  merely  a  tool.  She  does  nothing, 
nothing  is  done  to  her.  She  is  purely  a  creation 
of  the  mind,  a  charming  dummy.  She  is  the  com- 
plication,  the  obstacle  of  the  plot.     In  the  com- 


PLOT  67 

pleted  story,  other  characters  appear,  but  for  the 
plot  only  two  are  necessary.  Where,  in  this  story, 
is  the  climax?  Is  it  the  final  discovery  of  the  lover 
that  he  has  been  hoaxed,  or  is  it  his  determination 
to  come  to  the  lovely  Marjorie  Daw?  If  the  climax 
is  the  fmal  exemplification  of  the  theme,  and  if  the 
theme  is,  as  has  been  suggested,  "the  power  of 
ideals,"  then  the  man's  decision  to  hasten  to  her  is 
surely  the  climax.  Suspense  really  reaches  the 
highest  point  at  this  moment,  not  later;  for  one's 
interest  has  been  centered  throughout  on  the  ques- 
tion whether  or  not  a  real  love-affair  is  going  to 
spring  up.  That  question  must  be  settled  before 
one  can  consider  the  other,  —  whether  or  not  he 
will  win  her.  It  is  noteworthy  that  with  the  end 
of  suspense  there  is  no  end  of  interest.  Interest 
does  not  decline  till  the  last  word  of  the  denoue- 
ment is  said,  till  one  has  felt  the  fulness  of  the  final 
surprise  which  this  plot  is  bound  to  bring  with  it. 
Tension  may  be  relieved  without  any  letting  go  of 
interest.  The  climax  here  has  merely  relieved  the 
tension.  The  circumstances  leading  to  the  com- 
plication are  the  letters  which  must  be  written 
continuously,  —  letters  which  must  interest  the  re- 
cipient. The  cause  of  the  circumstances  which 
lead  to  the  complication  appears,  likewise,  in  this 
plot.  The  friend  is  disabled.  Environment  is  not 
necessary  to  the  plot.  This  incident  might  happen 
anywhere.  To  be  sure,  it  is  given  an  environment, 
but  this  does  not  appear  in  the  simple  plot  state- 
ment;   for  it  is  not  essential  to  movement. 


68  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

The  simple  plot  of  The  Revolt  of  Mother  is:  A  wife 
deliberately  moves  into  a  large  new  barn  built  by 
her  self-willed,  thoughtless,  and  stern  husband  on 
a  spot  long  cherished  for  a  promised  new  house. 
The  main  character,  the  wife,  is  plainly  indicated. 
Nothing  is  said  of  her,  except  that  she  has  long 
cherished  the  promise  of  a  new  house  and  that  she 
moves  into  the  barn  deliberately.  Her  husband, 
an  accessory  character,  is  more  carefully  charac- 
terized. Evidently  this  story  is  to  reveal  character 
in  conflict.  A  strong  will  is  going  to  be  pitted 
against  another  strong  will.  The  climax  is  the 
moving.  The  compHcation,  the  cause  of  bringing 
the  two  characters  into  conflict,  is  the  building  of 
a  new  barn.  The  circumstances  which  lead  to  the 
complication  are  to  be  found  in  the  character  of 
the  husband,  his  sternness  and  thoughtlessness  of 
his  promise  of  a  new  house.  Here,  circumstances 
amount  almost  to  a  negative  motive. 

Kipling's  The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King  is  very 
different  from  either  of  the  two  preceding  stories. 
Having  persuaded  the  natives  of  Kafiristan  to  regard 
them  as  gods  suddenly  come  into  the  country, 
two  crown-ambitious  men  remain  as  kings  until  one 
of  them,  seeking  greater  security  of  power  for  him- 
self, by  his  wishing  to  take  from  among  the  people 
a  wife,  reveals  that  he  and  his  friend  are  but  men, 
and  brings  death  upon  himself  and  disgraceful 
expulsion  upon  his  companion.  This  plot  is  more 
complex  than  any  yet  examined.  The  climax  is 
the  revelation  to  the  natives  that  the  two  men  are 


PLOT  69 

not  gods.  From  that  moment  they  cease  even  to 
be  kings.  What  follows  is  only  their  punishment. 
The  complication  is  the  desire  of  the  leader  to  take 
a  wife.  The  circumstances  leading  to  the  compli- 
cation are  found  again  in  the  nature  of  the  central 
character.  He  becomes  increasingly  ambitious  and 
wishes  to  rule  as  a  permanent  monarch.  It  is  plain 
at  once  that  the  story  demands  several  characters. 
The  natives  of  Kafiristan  appear  as  a  background. 
The  central  character  is  the  king  who  through  lack 
of  prudence  causes  the  complete  fall  of  himself 
and  of  his  friend.  From  the  plot,  very  little  is  known 
of  him  except  that  he  is  in  the  beginning  crown- 
ambitious,  and,  as  time  goes  on,  becomes  yet  more 
so.  The  companion  is,  likewise,  crown-ambitious, 
but  he  is  content  with  less  power  than  the  other 
has.  Evidently,  he  is  a  secondary  character  used 
as  some  sort  of  background  for  the  first.  The 
main  character  stands  out  the  more  clearly  as  leader 
in  presence  of  a  second  less  powerful.  This  second 
character,  too,  is  narrator.  He  is  more.  Kipling 
has  aimed  to  show  how  in  India,  that  land  of  con- 
trasts, one  may  indeed  be  "Brother  to  a  prince 
and  fellow  to  a  beggar,  if  he  be  found  worthy." 
The  second  character  fulfils  the  first  in  the  writer's 
purpose  for  the  story.  The  picture  of  the  king  is 
not  complete  without  the  picture  of  the  beggar, 
also,  as  an  interpretative  complement.  There  is 
a  famous  painting  by  Paris  Bordone  in  which  amid 
the  regal  splendor  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  a  fisherman, 
half-clad  and  trembling,  is  presenting  to  the  Doge, 


70  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

St.  Mark's  ring,  the  pledge  of  promised  reward. 
Such  is  the  main  picture,  but  in  the  lower  right- 
hand  corner  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  that  lead  upward 
to  the  Ducal  throne  there  sits  the  barefoot,  fisher- 
man'3  lad,  a  boy  of  the  people,  gazing  with  "wide- 
eyed  curiosity"  at  the  glitter  and  pomp  before  him. 
The  lad  fulfils  the  picture.  It  is  true  that  he  is 
needed  in  the  painting  for  a  technical  purpose, 
—  sim_ply  to  fill  in  a  portion  of  the  canvas  where 
a  side-view  of  the  steps  would  otherwise  leave,  in 
the  foreground,  a  broad  space  unoccupied.  Yet 
the  lad  has  a  further  purpose;  he  acts  as  an  inter- 
pretative complement.  Just  so  is  the  lesser  char- 
acter needed  in  The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King,  — 
as  a  narrator,  but  also  as  a  complement. 

An  indefinite  continuance  of  the  process  of  plot 
examination  would  confirm,  not  change  this  view  of 
essentials  of  plot.  In  it  one  finds  the  main  charac- 
ters with  more  or  less  hint  as  to  their  general  nature 
and  motives,  the  circumstances  leading  to  the  com- 
plication, this  complication,  and  cUmax,  Sometimes 
the  climax  and  denouement  are  separate;  sometimes 
they  coincide.  Sometimes  the  circumstances  leading 
to  the  complication  are  to  be  found  in  the  nature  of 
the  character.  Usually,  the  plot  statement  contains, 
beside  the  main  character,  one  or  two  accessory 
characters.  To  study  plot  a  little  more  thoroughly, 
however,  let  us  analyze  in  more  detail  another  story- 
plan,  —  that  of  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat:  Four 
disreputable  characters,  exiled  from  town,  start  to 
cross  a  mountain  range;    but,  halting  for  rest,  are 


PLOT  71 

overtaken  by  a  snow-storm  and  perish.  The  theme, 
as  has  been  stated,  is  the  acceptance  of  chance  as 
a  controlling  motive;  the  purpose  is  to  show  the 
essential  soundness  of  heart  that  can  coexist  with 
outward  conventional  badness.  Bearing  this  in 
mind,  let  us  try  to  follow  Bret  Harte's  steps  in 
the  construction  of  his  plot.  There  is  a  clear  reason 
for  every  movement.  The  climax  is  evidently  the 
death  of  the  outcasts.  It  could  be  nothing  else,  if 
climax  represents  the  final  outworking  of  the  theme; 
for  risk  of  life  is  the  greatest  chance  that  can  be 
taken,  and  death  is  the  extreme  to  which  acceptance 
of  chance  might  lead  one.  One  asks,  however, 
whether  it  would  not  have  been  just  as  satisfactory 
if  death  had  been  merely  faced,  not  met.  Is  there  a 
reason  that  death  should  at  length  conquer?  Merely 
facing  an  event,  however  fearful,  is  not  actually 
experiencing  it.  There  must  be  a  complete  yielding 
to  make  the  acceptance  sure  and  perfect.  So  much 
for  the  cUmax  and  the  theme.  The  climax  is,  how- 
ever, also  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  purpose.  If 
anything  will  avail  to  bring  out  the  spark  of  good  in 
character,  the  imminence  of  death  will  do  it. 

Four  characters  are  mentioned  in  the  plot  state- 
ment. It  seems  as  if  one  main  character  ought  to 
suffice.  Yet  here,  no  one  main  character  is  definitely 
marked  out.  All  four  were  evidently  regarded  by 
Bret  Harte  as  essential  to  the  plot.  A  person  who 
would  accept  chance  as  a  controlling  motive  would 
have  to  be  of  a  cool,  calculating  nature.  Although 
it  is  not  at  all  impossible  that  a  woman  should  have 


72 


THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 


such  a  disposition,  yet  it  is  improbable.  A  man 
would  be  much  more  appropriate  to  this  story.  Pic- 
ture a  man  of  a  cool,  calculating  disposition.  Almost 
instinctively  you  bring  him  into  comparison  with 
his  opposite  —  some  one  who  lacks  his  qualities,  who 
does  not  measure  carefully  every  act  to  see  just  how 
it  may  result.  Bret  Harte  made  this  uncalculating 
person  a  woman.  Man  and  woman,  representing 
the  calculating  and  the  uncalculating  types,  are  here 
contrasted.  To  make  the  central  character  stand 
forth  unique,  however,  he  must  be  shown  beside  his 
own  kind.  He  must  show  himself  somehow  superior 
to  those  with  whom  he  associates,  not  simply  in  his 
skill  and  foresight,  but  in  his  essential  nature;  hence 
another  man  is  introduced,  one  who  is  also  of  a  cal- 
culating nature.  Three  characters  are  thus  accounted 
for,  one  central,  two  as  accessories  for  contrast.  The 
picturing  of  the  central  character  would  demand  no 
more.  Yet  the  theme  demands  still  another.  In 
order  that  the  acceptance  of  chance  as  a  controlling 
motive  may  be  fully  displayed,  not  only  must  the 
calculating  and  uncalculating  be  shown,  but  in  the 
acceptance  of  chance,  man  must  be  contrasted  with 
woman,  man  must  be  contrasted  with  man,  and 
woman  must  be  contrasted  with  woman.  Two 
men  and  two  women,  therefore,  appear  in  the  simple 
plot  statement. 

These  characters  are  all  taken  from  one  class  — 
outcasts.  The  plot  calls  them  disreputable  char- 
acters exiled  from  town.  It  is  necessary  that  they 
should  be  such,  for  the  purpose  of  the  story  is  to 


PLOT  73 

show  the  latent  good  hidden  deep  in  evil.  The 
characters  must  be  bad;  that  is  taken  for  granted. 
The  lower  down  in  the  social  scale,  therefore,  these 
characters  are  placed,  the  more  surprising  and  hope- 
ful is  the  discovery  of  any  lingering  spark  of  good. 
Since  outcasts  are  at  the  extreme  foot  of  the  social 
scale,  they,  of  all  people,  are  most  fittingly  used  in 
a  story  of  this  kind. 

As  the  complication,  preparatory  to  the  climax, 
Bret  Harte  used  a  sudden  heavy  snowfall  in  the 
mountains.  Yet  to  imprison  his  characters,  thus, 
seems  a  slow  and  unsatisfactory  way  to  kill  them. 
An  avalanche  sweeping  everything  in  its  path,  a 
sudden  slip  over  a  precipice,  would  certainly  have 
done  the  work  just  as  thoroughly.  In  such  case, 
however,  the  outcasts  would  not  have  accepted 
chance  at  all;  they  would  have  been  merely  over- 
taken by  chance.  To  accept  it,  they  must  realize  its 
full  measure;  they  must  see  plainly  what  is  ahead 
of  them;  they  must  have  time  to  consider.  Death 
must,  then,  come  upon  them  gradually.  Time,  too, 
must  be  allowed  for  character  development.  Some- 
thing may  in  the  interval  arise  to  call  out  the  best 
that  is  in  these  outcasts.  There  might  be  several 
ways  of  showing  them  squarely  facing  death.  They 
might  be  awaiting  execution  within  a  limited  number 
of  days.  Such  a  situation,  however,  would  con- 
tradict the  original  proposition:  these  characters 
are  outcasts.  Society  has  indeed  turned  against 
them,  but  it  has  contented  itself  merely  by  turning 
its  back,  not  by  disposing  of  them  utterly.     Again, 


74  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

were  they  awaiting  execution,  they  would  be  deahng 
with  men  and  law,  not  with  chance.  There  could 
then  be  no  indefiniteness.  Isolation,  involving  cold 
and  starvation,  would  seem  satisfactorily  to  meet 
every  requirement.  It  will  not  cause  immediate 
death,  but  it  may  give  ample  time  for  character 
development  under  favoring  conditions.  A  moun- 
tain was  easily  chosen  as  a  suitable  place  for  such  an 
event  to  happen.  There  is  further  appropriateness, 
also,  in  severing  these  men  and  women  from  contact 
with  society  even  at  the  time  of  their  fmal  struggle. 
They  are  outcasts  in  life,  they  should  be  outcasts  in 
death.  If  they  leave  one  town,  they  must  die  before 
they  reach  the  next;  for  they  are  really  not  outcasts 
at  all,  if  after  they  have  been  driven  from  one  town, 
they  are  received  by  the  people  of  another.  So  long 
as  they  are  on  their  way,  they  continue  under  the 
social  ban. 

The  circumstances  from  which  the  complication 
springs  consist  of  a  simple  halting  for  rest  on  the 
journey.  This  action  seems  almost  incidental;  no 
one  suspects  that  it  will  have  dire  results.  Circum- 
stances again  can  be  referred  to  character.  Ordi- 
narily, people  would  not  halt  at  all,  midway  across  a 
mountain  range;  and  if,  perchance,  they  should  halt, 
it  would  be  for  a  short  time,  not  for  a  full  night. 

Thus,  one  sees  how  carefully  a  plot  is  constructed. 
There  is  evident  an  orderly  and  logical  sequence 
from  character  and  plot  circumstances  to  chmax. 
Each  part  has  been  accounted  for  by  what  immedi- 
ately precedes.   Yet  one  notes  how  the  writer's  theme 


Si 


PLOT  75 

and  purpose  have  acted  as  guide-posts  through- 
out the  way.  Not  only  did  they  decide  the  cUmax, 
but  with  the  chmax  they  decided  every  other  step. 
Naturally  one  cannot  say  that  every  story  that  is  a 
work  of  art  is  constructed  in  some  such  toilsome  way 
as  this.  Some  plots  form  themselves  hurriedly  and 
exactly  without  much  interference  from  the  writer. 
Yet,  until  one  has  learned  to  think  out  stories  logi- 
cally, without  toying  with  the  little  irrelevancies, 
the  fancied  elegancies;  until  one  has  thoroughly 
grasped  the  spirit  of  Short-story  form  and  move- 
ment; one  should  test  every  story  by  some  such 
plan  as  this. 


IV 

STRUCTURE 

Plot  marks  out  the  rough  Hues  upon  which  a 
story  is  to  be  built,  while  structure  completes  the 
specifications  for  the  building.  Upon  the  workman- 
ship of  the  one  no  less  than  of  the  other  depend  the 
beauty  and  the  strength  of  a  story.  A  single  error 
in  plotting  may  make  the  whole  unstable  and  totter- 
ing; a  single  flaw  in  structure  may  ruin  the  sym- 
metry and  mar  the  grace  of  a  story.  There  is  an 
art  in  sketching  outlines  and  another  in  arranging 
the  minutiae.  Structure  concerns  itself  with  the 
latter.  It  involves  the  work  of  details,  of  weather- 
boarding,  of  chimneys,  of  window-frames  and  doors. ^ 
It  is  used,  as  a  technical  term,  to  denote  not  the 
finishing,  the  final  careful  pohshing  of  a  story,  but 
rather  the  minute  elaboration  of  the  plot  preparatory 
to  the  actual  work  of  writing.  It  is  the  altogether 
necessary,  if  slightly  irksome,  process  of  perfecting 
a  design  before  one  can  begin  to  make  it  appear  in 
haunting    word    and    living   phrase.     Every    detail 

1  "  [Stevenson]  mapped  out  the  plan  of  a  coming  novel  when- 
ever he  resolved  starting  on  one.  This  was  putting  up  the 
scafToIding,  he  said;  and  as  soon  as  the  foundation  was  laid  and 
the  walls  begun,  he  called  attention  to  the  rising  structure." 
E.  Blantvre  Simpson,  The  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  Originals,  p. 
153. 


STRUCTURE  77 

must  have  a  reason  for  its  existence  and  for  its 
position.  Each  sentence,  each  incident,  each  charac- 
ter, each  description,  each  remark,  must  be  chosen 
for  its  harmony  with  the  single  effect  and  fitted  into 
the  place  where  it  will  count  for  greatest  strength.^ 
Parts  must  be  so  joined  that  the  sutures  do  not 
stand  out  boldly.  The  skilful  story  will  seem  com- 
plete only  when  every  part  is  so  necessary  that,  were 
it  removed,  there  would  be  an  evident  lack.  In  the 
structure  of  the  Short-story  there  belongs  the  con- 
sideration of  efTective  subsidiary  incidents  and 
characters,  of  proportion,  of  order  of  events,  of 
verisimilitude,  of  point  of  view,  or  as  Mr.  Pitkin 
more  aptly  calls  it,  of  the  "angle  of  narration." 
Beginning  and  end,  although  they  might  appro- 
priately be  considered  under  structure,  will  on 
account  of  their  importance  be  treated  in  a  separate 
chapter. 

In  his  admirable  book.  The  Materials  and  Methods 
of  Fiction,  Mr.  Clayton  Hamilton  says:  "The  aim 
of  a  Short-story  is  to  produce  a  single  narrative  effect 
with  the  greatest  economy  of  means  that  is  consistent 
with  the  utmost  emphasis."  ^  This  statement  should 
be  kept  before  one  constantly  as  a  guide  in  the  study 
of  structure.     It  means  that  everything  which  goes 

^  Stevenson  bears  witness  to  the  value  of  such  careful  work- 
manship. "'Belle,'  he  said,  'I  see  it  all  so  clearly!  The  story 
unfolds  itself  before  me  to  the  least  detail  —  there  is  nothing 
left  in  doubt.  I  never  felt  so  before  in  anything  I  ever  wrote. 
It  [Weir  of  Ilcrmislon]  will  be  my  best  work;  I  feel  myself  so 
sure  in  every  word!'"  The  Robert  Louis  Slevenson  Originals, 
p.  182.  2  P.  173. 


78  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

into  a  Short-story  must  be  rigidly  examined  to  see 
whether  it  is  necessary,  whether  it  adds  anything 
to  the  whole,  whether  it  fits  perfectly  into  the  place 
that  has  been  made  ready.  Perhaps  some  other 
incident  would  be  more  harmonious;  would  make 
the  story  more  complete.  We  quote  Mr.  Hamilton 
again  at  length:  "The  phrase  'with  the  greatest 
economy  of  means'  implies  that  the  writer  of  a 
Short-story  should  tell  his  tale  with  the  fewest 
necessary  number  of  characters  and  incidents,  and 
should  project  it  in  the  narrowest  possible  range  of 
place  and  time.  If  he  can  get  along  with  two  char- 
acters, he  should  not  use  three.  If  a  single  event 
will  suffice  for  his  effect,  he  should  confine  himself  to 
that.  If  his  story  can  pass  in  one  place  at  one  time, 
he  must  not  disperse  it  over  several  times  and  places. 
But  in  striving  always  for  the  greatest  possible  con- 
ciseness, he  must  not  neglect  the  equally  important 
need  of  producing  his  effect  'with  the  utmost  em- 
phasis.' If  he  can  gain  markedly  in  emphasis  by 
violating  the  strictest  possible  economy,  he  should 
do  so;  for,  as  Poe  stated,  undue  brevity  is  excep- 
tionable, as  well  as  undue  length.  .  .  .  The  greatest 
structural  problem  of  the  writer  of  Short-stories  is  to 
strike  just  the  proper  balance  between  the  effort  for 
economy  of  means  —  which  tends  to  conciseness  — 
and  the  effort  for  the  utmost  emphasis  —  which 
tends  to  amplitude  of  treatment."  ^ 

In  every  story,  there  are  likely  to  be  some  charac- 
ters which  are  not  necessary  to  the  plot  movement, 
1  The  Materials  and  Methods  of  Fiction,  pp.  175-6. 


STRUCTURE  79 

but  are  necessary  to  structure.  These,  one  calls 
developing  characters,  for  they  assist  in  the  growth 
of  plot  into  the  complete  story.  Often  they  appear 
for  contrast  as  emphasizing  foils.  If  the  main 
characters  are  unusual  in  some  way,  the  developing 
characters  may  be  commonplace,  ordinary,  so  that 
what  is  unusual  may  be  made  to  stand  out  the  more 
distinctly.  If  the  main  characters  are  disreputable, 
their  wickedness  will  be  accentuated  by  contrast  with 
the  good.  Piney  and  The  Innocent  are  thus  intro- 
duced in  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat.  They  exist  for 
"utmost  emphasis."  Bret  Harte's  story  is  the 
stronger  for  their  presence.  Thus  it  is  through  all  the 
range  of  possible  contrasts.  The  one  character  may 
serve  as  a  background  for  the  other,  sometimes  em- 
phasizing, sometimes  merely  measuring  the  other. 
Thus  does  one  view  the  highest  lights  and  the  deepest 
shadows.  Yet  characters  rarely  exist  for  contrast 
alone.  The  rule  of  greatest  economy  of  means  re- 
quires also  that  they  be  woven  into  the  structure  in 
other  ways.  As  well  as  serving  for  "utmost  em- 
phasis" Piney  and  her  lover  are  the  means  of  supply- 
ing provisions  to  the  outcasts.  In  Henry  James' 
The  Madonna  of  the  Future,  over  against  the  man 
with  the  noble  but  never  attained  ideal  is  set  the 
artist  with  no  soul,  whose  only  look  is  downward, 
whose  only  work  is  to  make  caricatures  of  life.  At 
the  end,  the  artist  with  the  unattained  ideals  is  still 
the  great  man.  The  other  is  himself  hardly  more 
than  a  caricature.  The  incident  in  which  he  flaunts 
his  wares  is  more  than  a  character  contrast;    it  is 


80  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

mood  giving.  It  utters  a  note  of  hopelessness,  of 
despair.  Already  one  feels  that  the  artist  with  an 
ideal  has  failed  utterly  and  completely.  His,  indeed, 
has  been  the  luxury  of  cherishing  alone  an  ideal 
without  the  pain  of  striving  to  attain  it.  It  is  a 
pessimistic  story,  as  all  stories  of  lost  opportunities 
must  be,  and  the  man  of  the  caricatures  enforces  its 
impression  of  utter  barrenness.  The  more  purposes 
a  single  character  can  be  made  to  serve  and  serve 
naturally,  the  fewer  the  characters  that  will  be 
necessary,  and  the  stronger  the  story.  Contrasting 
characters  can  frequently  be  thus  used. 

Sometimes,  developing  characters  are  scarcely 
individuals  at  all;  they  supply  background  and  give 
atmosphere.  As  such,  they  are  not  carefully  drawn: 
some  may  be  merely  mentioned;  others  may  be 
distinguished  slightly.  Extra  characters  are  used 
sometimes  merely  to  carry  out  details.  A  narrator 
who  is  not  a  participant  in  the  action  is  sometimes 
needed.  It  is  useless  and  impossible  to  enumerate 
all  the  ways  in  which  accessory  characters  may 
serve.  Each  story  has  its  own  needs.  A  character 
may  be  added  for  the  sake  of  naturalness.  When 
there  is  something  apparently  mysterious  in  the 
story,  a  person  may  be  used  to  confirm  the  strange- 
ness, to  make  it  actual.  In  Theij,  again.  Madden, 
the  butler,  serves  exactly  such  a  purpose.  Up  to 
the  point  where  he  enters  there  has  been  no  reason 
to  suspect  that  the  children  are  not  real  children. 
They  have  seemed  excessively  shy,  they  have  never 
been  named,  but  neither  has  the  bhnd  woman  nor 


STRUCTURE  81 

the  man  from  the  other  side  of  the  county.  Now, 
by  questions,  the  butler  shows  surprise  that  the  man 
from  the  other  side  of  the  county  should  have  seen 
the  children.  Had  he  seen  them  even  before  the 
blind  woman  had  spoken  to  him?  Evidently  they 
are  visible  to  some  and  invisible  to  others.  The 
atmosphere  of  mystery  is  deepened  by  being  made 
more  definite. 

In  The  Revolt  of  Mother,  there  appear  several 
minor  characters.  Chief  among  these  are  the 
daughter  who  sits  embroidering  and  the  young  son 
who  lopes  off  to  school.  Both  of  these  characters 
are  necessary  to  the  proper  development  of  the  story. 
Because  she  wishes  her  daughter  to  have  a  parlor, 
not  a  kitchen  in  which  to  be  married,  and  because 
Nancy  and  George  Eastman  are  to  stay  at  the 
Penns'  after  the  marriage,  Sarah  Penn  feels  especially 
anxious  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  promise  of  a  new 
house.  Without  such  justification,  her  revolt  would 
have  been  inexcusable;  it  would  have  revealed  a  self- 
willed,  obstinate,  and  disloyal  wife.  That  she  has 
really  been  an  ever-faithful  wife  is  emphasized, 
however,  throughout  the  story  in  many  little  ways. 
How  eager  she  is  —  even  after  forty  years  —  to  bake 
Adoniram's  favorite  pies!  The  boy  is  of  less  real 
service.  He  is  needed  chiefly  to  assist  in  the  moving. 
There  would  have  been  much  impropriety  in  calling 
in  the  neighbors  to  assist.  They  would  have  been 
under  no  obligations  to  obey  the  wife,  and  they  would 
never  have  run  the  risk  of  angering  the  husband. 
This  is  strictly  a  family  affair.     The  boy  must  obey 


82  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

his  mother.  To  him,  also,  explanations  which  could 
never  be  made  to  neighbors,  could  be  given.  The 
minister  is  another  minor  personage.  He  comes  to 
talk  the  matter  over.  Evidently  he  wishes  to 
convince  the  wife  that  she  has  been  undutiful.  He 
goes  away  dismayed.  In  the  story  he  serves  merely 
to  show  that  the  wife  is  resolute,  that  her  purpose 
has  not  changed.  She  feels  that  she  has  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of.  She  is  unabashed.  But  for  the 
minister,  we  should  have  wondered  just  a  Httle 
whether  the  wife  would  be  steadfast  in  her  purpose 
and  hold  her  ground  on  the  arrival  of  her  husband. 
The  other  personages  are  scarcely  more  than  men- 
tioned: the  hired  man,  the  haymakers,  the  men  and 
women  of  the  community.  They  represent  nothing 
in  the  story,  except  a  background  of  farm  toil  and 
neighborhood  gossip.  A  story  is  constructed  ra- 
tionally, and  the  developing  characters  are  simply 
the  outgrowth  of  its  needs. 

Characters,  however,  always  appear  in  relation  to 
incident.  It  is,  therefore,  to  this  element  of  structure 
that  attention  must  now  be  turned.  It  is  a  rule  of 
the  Short-story  that  every  part  must  in  some  way 
further  the  progress  toward  a  predetermined  end. 
Incidents  must  supply  movement  and  life;  they 
must  add  the  details  which  make  a  story  rounded 
and  complete.  Upon  their  skilful  choice  and 
arrangement,  much  of  the  effectiveness  of  a  story 
depends.  Incidents  serve  in  three  ways:  to  illus- 
trate, to  forward  movement,  and  to  give  emotional 
stimulus.     No  story  is  hkely  to  limit  their  use  to  a 


STRUCTURE  83 

single  way.  Action  and  emotion  must  appear 
together  in  every  story;  hence  incidents  of  move- 
ment and  incidents  of  emotion  will  be  found  side  by 
side  or  in  combination. 

Illustrative  incidents  are  more  rarely  found;  they 
are  not  fundamentally  necessary.  Incidents  of 
movement  are,  of  course,  of  the  very  life  of  a  story. 
Such  are  the  plot  incidents;  such  the  subsidiary 
incidents  that  further  the  progress  of  action.  By 
arranging  emotional  incidents  so  that  they  come 
between  important  incidents  of  movement,  one 
may  produce  the  effect  of  minor  crises  and  keep 
the  story  from  suffering  from  a  dull  monotony  of 
relentless  progression.  It  might  be  supposed  that 
crises  would  quicken  interest,  then  cause  it  to  lag; 
that  they  would  not  only  break  monotony  but 
also  slacken  suspense;  that,  consequently,  a  story 
would  consist  of  a  succession  of  jolts  and  would 
have  no  final  singleness  of  impression.  To  one 
climbing  a  hill,  the  full  glory  of  vision  is  revealed 
only  at  the  end  of  the  ascent.  Yet  all  along  the 
way  there  arc  partial  revelations,  which  indicate 
one's  progress  and  grow  in  beauty  as  one  rises.  So 
it  is  in  the  Short-story;  each  new  crisis  enlarges 
the  view,  but  the  climax  fulfils  them  all  at  the  last. 
There  is  ever  an  upward  gradation,  and  the  crises 
but  mark  the  lookout  points  along  the  way,  each 
point  higher  than  the  one  preceding.  Between 
crises  there  need  be  no  weakening  of  interest  and 
suspense,  for  one  need  not  descend  into  the  valley 
before    reaching    each    higher    position.     Thus,    in 


84  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  the  first  crisis  is  the 
declaralion  of  the  Duchess  that  she  will  go  no  far- 
ther, and  the  consequent  halting.  The  next  crisis 
is  The  Innocent's  offer  of  his  mule-load  of  pro- 
visions. The  third  is  the  discovery  of  snow;  the 
fourth,  Uncle  Billy's  theft  of  the  mules;  the  fifth,  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  departure  from  camp.  Here  is  a  cres- 
cendo of  interest.  All  the  way  there  has  been  a 
gradual  winding  up  of  suspense  toward  the  climax 
which  is  yet  to  come.  Mrs.  Knollys  shows  excel- 
lently the  same  structure.  The  first  crisis  is  Charles 
Knollys'  fall  into  the  crevasse:  the  second,  the 
German  scientist's  announcement  that  the  body 
cannot  be  recovered:  the  third  is  the  letter  telling 
of  the  possibility  of  finding  the  body  after  forty- 
five  years.  The  climax  is,  of  course,  the  actual 
recovery  of  the  body  after  the  long  years  of  wait- 
ing. Between  crises  there  is  not  the  lagging  of 
interest  that  one  might  expect  in  this  sort  of  story. 
Each  time,  one  waits  to  hear  how  Mrs.  Knollys  is 
going  to  bear  the  new  announcement.  Thus,  there 
is  also  a  natural  emotional  progression  between 
crises,  and  the  story  moves  directly  toward  the 
end  without  check  or  jar. 

The  second  type  —  the  illustrative  incident  — 
likewise  appeals  to  the  intellect.  Illustrations,  in 
expository  writing,  illuminate.  So  do  illustrative 
incidents  in  narrative.  Sometimes  they  give  merely 
a  clearer  insight  into  some  fact  of  the  story;  they 
make  it  vivid  by  making  it  concrete.  Frequently, 
a  character  is  thus  explained.     When  in  Markheim, 


STRUCTURE  85 

"the  notes  of  a  piano  were  wakened  to  the  music 
of  a  hymn,"  the  murderer  drifts  into  a  revery  that 
shows  how  great  has  been  his  fall  from  an  innocent 
childhood.  Of  course,  this  incident  has  also  a 
certain  emotional  value,  yet  it  is  chiefly  illustrative. 
The  incident  already  referred  to  in  The  Revolt  of 
Mother,  —  that  of  Sarah  Penn's  making  mince  pies 
— ,  is  illustrative.  Still  another  in  the  same  story 
is  Adoniram's  complaint  that  his  wife  should  have 
kept  the  boy  at  home  to  help  unload  wood.  Some- 
times an  illustrative  incident  may  serve  to  shed 
new  light  on  a  theme.  It  may  approach  the  theme 
from  a  new  direction,  and  become  a  means  of 
"utmost  emphasis"  by  presenting  an  additional 
circumstance.  In  They,  the  illness  and  death  of 
Jenny's  child  is  but  to  show  the  love  of  a  mother. 
Such  incidents  are  easily  combined  with  those  of 
movement  or  of  illustration. 

Emotional  incidents  do  not  further  the  action  of 
a  story  directly.  They  give  tone  and  atmosphere 
and  stimulate  the  reader's  sympathy.  They  may 
be  mood-giving  and  in  absolute  harmony  with  the 
tone;  they  may  lighten  a  story  by  a  sudden  spark 
of  humor.  Whether  they  are  used,  however,  to 
intensify  or  to  relieve,  they  may  assist  in  creating 
a  single  impression.  Although  emotional  incidents 
may  stand  alone,  as  in  The  Madonna  of  the  Future 
already  referred  to,  they  are  usually  combined  with 
those  of  movement  or  of  illustration.  The  inci- 
dent in  Markheim  of  the  striking  of  the  clocks  is 
a   subtle   blending   of   two    kinds.     Obviously,    the 


86  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

emotional  suspense  is  vastly  heightened,  yet  one 
cannot  deny  that  Markheim's  conscience  is  thus 
prepared  for  what  follows.  The  incident  combines 
emotion  and  movement.  The  oftener  such  com- 
binations can  be  made,  the  stronger  the  story:  for 
condensation  increases  rapidity  and  rapidity  always 
tends  toward  directness. 

Just  as  one  studies  the  kinds  of  incidents  and 
seeks  to  vary  them  one  with  another,  so  one  must 
be  ever  watchful  that  character  and  action  and 
atmosphere  appear  in  due  proportion.  Each  ele- 
ment must  receive  a  proper,  but  not  an  over- 
emphasis. In  the  relation  of  an  incident  or  the 
description  of  a  character  a  great  many  minor 
and  seemingly  needless  details  may  be  given. 
They  exist  for  emphasis.  In  The  Revolt  of  Mother, 
a  host  of  details  are  given  about  Sarah  Penn.  First, 
one  is  given  a  picture  of  her;  then  one  sees  her  in 
her  household  duties;  is  told  how  she  washes  dishes, 
sweeps,  bakes  pies.  Next,  one  sees  her  in  relation 
to  her  husband  —  first  giving  him  a  "plain  talk," 
then  making  his  shirts,  then  preparing  him  for  his 
trip.  Many  of  these  details  seem  almost  unneces- 
sary, but  one  must  remember  that  this  is  a  charac- 
ter story.  At  the  climax,  action  is  given  its  full 
chance.  One  witnesses  the  actual  moving,  the 
packing  of  the  dishes,  the  carting  of  the  household 
goods  to  the  new  barn,  the  transforming  of  the 
harness-room  into  the  kitchen.  Yet  in  everything, 
one  is  made  to  feel  the  force  of  character.  In  The 
Man  Who  Would  Be  King,  little  space  is  given  to 


STRUCTURE  87 

direct  character  portrayal.  Here  action  —  adven- 
ture —  is  really  the  main  point.  In  so  far  as  is 
necessary,  character  is  portrayed  through  this 
medium.  In  Mrs.  Knollijs,  character  and  atmo- 
sphere are  chiefly  emphasized;  in  The  Masque  of 
the  Red  Death,  atmosphere.  Occasionally,  a  strik- 
ing character  or  a  striking  action  may  be  best 
emphasized  by  few  words.  Briefness  where  one  is 
expecting  detail,  may  startle  one  into  attention. 
Ordinarily,  however,  one  should  plan  to  give  most 
space  to  that  which  demands  most  emphasis. 

One  frequently  fmds  another  means  of  emphasis. 
A  common  device  in  music  is  to  repeat  a  theme  by 
variations,  or  to  repeat  some  phrase  over  and  over 
again.  With  every  recurrence  one  is  pleased,  as  at 
recognizing  something  familiar.  The  same  device 
has  been  used  with  good  effect  in  the  Short-story. 
Poe  recognized  its  value  both  for  poetry  and  for 
prose.  In  the  Short-story  it  may  be  variously 
used:  sometimes  the  theme  may  be  thus  empha- 
sized; sometimes  a  refrain  is  suggestive  of  the 
climax,  of  the  purpose,  —  sometimes  only  of  tone. 
It  may  take  several  forms:  it  may  be  a  set  phrase 
or  a  genuine  refrain;  it  may  recur  in  variations  of 
a  single  idea.  Yet  whatever  the  form,  the  device 
is  sure  to  deepen  the  impression.  These  variations 
may  stand  out  boldly,  or  they  may  be  so  deftly 
wrought  into  the  context  as  to  be  scarcely  notice- 
able. Yet  the  same  subtle  effect  is  always  produced, 
and,  though  the  device  is  simple,  it  is  powerful  for 
unity.     Two  or  three  kinds  may  appear  in  the  same 


88  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

story  without  detracting  from  the  effect  of  any  one 
of  them,  or  without  becoming  wearisome. 

In  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  the  theme  is  sug- 
gested several  times.  It  is  said  of  Mr.  Oakhurst 
that  he  was  "too  much  of  a  gambler  not  to  accept 
Fate.  With  him  life  was  at  best  an  uncertain  game." 
Again,  he  points  out  "the  folly  of  'throwing  up 
their  hand  before  the  game  was  played  out.'"  He 
tells  The  Innocent  that  "Luck  is  a  mighty  queer 
thing.  .  .  .  And  it's  finding  out  when  it's  going  to 
change  that  makes  you.  If  you  can  hold  your  cards 
right  along,  you're  all  right."  Later,  he  "settles 
himself  coolly  to  the  losing  game  before  him." 
Finally,  in  the  inscription,  he  speaks  of  himself 
as  having  "struck  a  streak  of  bad  luck."  These 
variations  keep  the  theme  ever  before  one's  mind, 
without  causing  any  strain  in  attention.  In  the 
same  story,  there  is  a  refrain  suggestive  both  of 
purpose  and  of  climax. 

In  Mrs.  Knollys,  the  variations  of  the  theme  are 
less  easily  distinguishable.  Mrs.  Knollys  is  intro- 
duced as  hopeful-eyed,  and  Charles  Knollys  is  said 
to  have  had  "great  hopes."  Hope  is  shown  again 
where  the  two,  instead  of  looking  at  the  mountain 
round  them,  are  planning  the  furnishings  for  the 
cottage  on  Box  Hill.  The  German  scientist  had 
a  hope  of  refuting  Spliithner's  theory.  Then  Mrs. 
Knollys  in  her  distress  exclaims,  "They  said  that 
they  hoped  he  could  be  recovered,"  and  out  on  his 
evening  stroll  the  scientist  echoes  the  remark.  She 
lived  with  his  memory.    "Was  he  not  coming  back  to 


STRUCTURE  89 

her?"  "She  knew  the  depths  of  human  hope  and 
sorrow."  Mary  Knollys  had  looked  five  and  forty 
years  ahead.  On  her  last  night  of  waiting,  she  had 
slept,  "the  glacier  ever  present  in  her  dreams." 
Twice  it  is  said  of  the  glacier  that  "immortality 
lay  brooding  in  its  hollows."  Here  are  many  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  hope,  to  be  sure,  but  they  all  echo 
the  same  spirit  of  quiet  waiting,  of  a  mind  bent 
upon  the  future. 

In  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  the  tall  ebony 
clock  intensifies  mightily  the  awfulness  of  the  scene. 
A  refrain  or  a  phrase  repeated  with  variations  may 
thus  assist  tone;  it  may  even  represent  the  steady, 
irresistible  oncoming  of  destiny;  if  skilfully  used, 
it  might  hasten  movement  itself  and  make  action 
more  tense.  From  a  different  field,  in  The  Charge 
of  the  Light  Brigade,  one  has  a  good  instance.  Action 
is  definitely  hastened  by  the  repeated  refrain: 

"  Into  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred." 

To  a  passenger  on  an  express  train,  the  sight  of 
telegraph  poles  streaming  backwards  along  the  way 
seems  to  accelerate  the  movement.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  poles  do  not  make  progress;  they  only 
mark  it.  A  refrain  in  a  story  of  intense  action  may 
have  like  value. 

In  directing  attention  continuously  toward  that 
which  deserves  greatest  emphasis,  the  orderly  ar- 
rangement of  events  within  a  story  needs  to  be 
considered.  It  is  a  frequent  stumbling-block. 
Some  say  that  the  chronological  order  is  likely  to 


90  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

make  a  story  move  slowly;   that  it  may  necessitate 
beginning  too  far  back  and  admitting  much  irrel- 
evant detail;   that  a  story  can  rarely  be  told  in  the 
order   in    which   it    happened.     Others    assert   that 
the  chronological  is  the  natural  order,  and  that  it 
is  a  means  of  avoiding  otherwise  necessary  inter- 
ruptions   in    the    narrative.     There    is    a    measure 
of    truth    in    both    assertions.     Much    depends    on 
the  story,   much  on  the  skill  of  the  writer.     It  is 
taken    for   granted    that   a   writer   who    knows    his 
business  will  not  load  a  story  with  pointless  detail. 
There  is,  of  course,  a  certain  amount  of  antecedent 
action   which   must   be   explained  in   almost   every 
story.     Yet  one  need  not  tell   all  this  antecedent 
action   as   it   is   supposed   to   have   happened,    nor 
does  one  need  to  mass  it  all  at  the  beginning.     It 
may  be  distributed  throughout  the  story,  yet  not 
interfere  at  all  with  chronological  order.     Of  course, 
it  would  be  awkward  to  lead  one  up  to  a  point  and 
then  to  turn  deliberately  to  say,  "It  must  be  ex- 
plained that  just  four  months  before,  while  Jack 
was   in   the   hayfield.  ..."     Such   action   may   be 
explained    within    the    story    in    a    conversational 
passage,  in  a  revery,  by  an  incidental  reference,  by 
intimation,  or  by  narrative  amplification. 

If  there  is  much  antecedent  action  to  be  told, 
the  task  will  naturally  be  somewhat  more  difficult. 
In  The  Revolt  of  Mother,  Mrs.  Freeman  had  to  show 
the  inconveniences  that  Sarah  Penn  had  long  endured 
at  the  hands  of  her  husband.  She  might  have 
marshaled  these  all  at  the  beginning  and  then  have 


STRUCTURE  91 

reviewed  them.  She  chose  a  more  artistic  way. 
She  began  the  story  with  the  immediate  provocation 
and  let  that  lead  to  a  review  of  the  past  in  the 
accusation  of  the  husband.  Where  the  past  con- 
cerns the  main  character  alone,  and  records  his  own 
failures  and  successes,  revery  may  take  the  place 
of  conversation,  as  in  Markhcim.  In  these  cases 
the  antecedent  action  is  made  not  to  interrupt,  but 
to  forward  the  movement  chronologically.  In 
Marjorie  Daw,  the  letters  mention  incidentally  the 
trip  that  Edward  Delaney  and  John  Flemming  had 
expected  to  take,  and  tell  of  Flemming's  accident 
and  its  cause.  The  curio  dealer  intimates  certain 
things  about  Markheim's  past  life.  The  first  sen- 
tence of  The  Cask  of  Amontillado  is  but  an  intima- 
tion of  preceding  action.  It  does  not  enter  into 
details.  Several  times  in  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat, 
there  is  a  direct  reference  to  something  that  hap- 
pened before  the  opening  of  the  story.  Yet  these 
references  are  in  the  nature  of  narrative  amplifica- 
tions which  may  refer  either  backward  or  forward 
without  disturbing  the  movement  in  any  way.  In 
The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King,  a  strict  chrono- 
logical order  is  followed,  and  the  antecedent  action 
is  related  as  it  happened  before  the  story  proper 
begins.  It  could  not  have  been  arranged  differently, 
since  the  antecedent  action  here  but  introduces 
the  man  who  is  to  be  the  narrator  of  his  own 
experiences. 

Thus,  in  several  ways,  antecedent  action  may  be 
handled.     There    is    another    difliculty,  —  that    of 


92  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

arranging  events  which  happen  at  the  same  time. 
In  Mrs.  Knolhjs,  there  is  a  good  example  of  a  direct 
violation    of    chronological    order.     The    last    sen- 
tence of  the  second  division  speaks  of  Mrs.  Knollys' 
return  to  England.     The  first  sentence  of  division 
three  shows  the  German  scientist  just  after  he  had 
found    out    his    distressing    blunder.     Three    para- 
graphs later,  Mrs.   Knollys  is  said  to  be  living  in 
the  little  cottage  in  Surrey.     The  break  here  seems 
unavoidable,    unless    these    three    paragraphs    had 
been  omitted.     In  such  case,  however,  one  would 
have   felt    only    reproach    for   the    coldness    of   the 
scientist.     There  would  have  been  a  note  of  harsh- 
ness in  a  story  otherwise  sweet.     The  story  is  better 
as  it  is,  in  spite  of  the  interruption.     Although  there 
are  many  times  when  the  nature  of  the  story  will 
make   such   violation    advisable,    the   chronological 
order  may  be  followed  in  most  cases  satisfactorily. 
Sometimes  a  Short-story  is  divided,   as  it  were, 
into    chapters.     The    divisions    are    marked    by    a 
row   of  asterisks,   by   Roman   numerals,   or   simply 
by    breaks   in   the   pages.     Although   they    appear 
in  many  good  stories  —  in  those  of  Henry  James 
almost  without  exception  —  they  are  usually  to  be 
avoided.     Where    there    seems    to    be    a    complete 
change  in  scene   and   a  full    break  in   the  line  of 
thought,    they    are    excusable.     The    break    would 
be  all  the  more  evident  were  one  to  reach  it  with- 
out a  warning  signal.     In  Mrs.  Knollys,  the  divisions 
represent  complete  stages  in  the  life  of  the  main 
character;    hence  the  breaks   do   not  seem  to  jar 


STRUCTURE  93 

or  to  interfere  with  the  story's  totality.  If  the 
divisions  represent  only  passage  of  time,  they 
retard  the  movement  and  are  in  most  cases  worse 
than  useless.  Time  intervals  can  generally  be 
bridged  over  by  a  phrase  or  a  sentence;  sometimes 
they  may  be  simply  ignored.  If  a  story  can  be 
built  without  chapters,  it  is  a  sore  mistake  to  divide 
it.  Even  the  stories  in  which  a  visible  break  is 
necessary  seem  thereby  to  lose  force.  They  tempt 
the  reader  to  take  a  rest;  for  if  the  story  is  in  no 
hurry,  why  should  he  be?  The  divided  story  is,  at 
least,  liable  to  fail  of  producing  a  single  impression. 
If  is  often  somewhat  of  a  problem,  too,  to  know 
in  what  form  to  cast  one's  story;  to  fmd  out  what 
Mr,  Pitkin  calls  the  "angle  of  narration."  Here, 
as  elsewhere,  one's  best  guide  is  common-sense  aided 
by  an  instinct  for  propriety.  A  story  may  be  told 
objectively  as  if  by  "an  external  omniscient  person- 
ality." This  means  has  long  been  popular.  It  has, 
of  course,  its  disadvantages;  it  may  at  times  lead 
to  a  lack  of  naturalness  and  vividness.  Yet  it 
allows  one  to  see  what  is  happening  in  all  places 
and  at  all  times;  it  permits  one  to  know  the  inner 
thoughts  and  the  hidden  impulses;  to  analyze  a 
situation  or  a  character.  From  no  other  angle 
could  Markheim  have  been  told  so  effectively.  The 
objective  angle  makes  it  easy  to  treat  every  one 
impersonally,  and  it  allows  one  to  concentrate  all 
attention  on  the  story  and  utterly  to  ignore  the 
presence  of  a  narrator.  0.  Henry's  After  Twenty 
Years  might  have  been  told  by  a  witness,  but  it 


/■ 


g4  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

would  thus  have  lost  in  directness  and  have  gained 
nothing  for  the  extra  trouble.  Sometimes  the 
objective  is  the  only  possible  angle  of  narration. 
The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  could  never  have  been 
related  with  propriety  in  any  other  way.  Four  of 
the  participants  died  within  the  story.  Of  the 
two  who  survived,  Uncle  Billy  made  his  escape  be- 
fore complications  became  serious.  The  Innocent, 
through  the  loss  of  Piney,  was  too  deeply  concerned 
to  have  acted  as  narrator.  He  might,  perhaps, 
have  related  the  story  to  a  friend  who  in  turn 
would  have  acted  as  narrator.  Even  this  method 
would  have  been  unsatisfactory.  Piney  would  have 
been  the  main  character;  the  outcasts,  but  friends 
and  sharers  of  misfortune.  He  could  never  have 
told  just  what  the  Duchess  and  Piney  did  after  the 
departure  of  Mr.  Oakhurst.  The  story  would  have 
been  incomplete.  This  objective  angle  of  narra- 
tion, moreover,  has  the  virtues  of  completeness 
and  of  simplicity. 

A  story  may  be  told  from  the  angle  of  participant 
or  of  a  witness.  This  angle  makes  for  vividness 
and  plausibility.  One  is  always  more  eager  to 
hear  and  more  ready  to  believe  the  narration  of 
what  an  acquaintance  has  seen  or  done  than  one  is 
to  hear  and  believe  an  impersonal,  objective  narra- 
tion. A  narrator  of  a  story  becomes  temporarily 
an  acquaintance,  and  the  story  takes  on  the  propor- 
tions of  the  actual.  Especially  vivid  is  an  adven- 
ture story  told  from  the  angle  of  the  main  character. 
Of  course,  this  angle  precludes,   as  has  been  sug- 


STRUCTURE  95 

gested,  the  possibility  of  catastrophe.  Yet  one  can 
still  allow  the  narrator  to  be  shipwrecked,  to  drift 
about  on  a  piece  of  wreckage  for  a  week,  and  finally 
to  be  picked  up  by  a  tramp  steamer.  The  possibility 
of  catastrophe  makes  the  story  more  thrilling,  but 
the  certainty  of  hairbreadth  escapes  makes  it  more 
satisfying. 

Although  the  angle  of  main  participant  may  be 
good  in  stories  of  action,  it  is  ill  adapted  to  the 
character  story.  The  main  character  cannot  dis- 
course on  his  own  merits  and  peculiarities;  he  must 
become  known  entirely  through  his  actions  and 
manner  of  speech.  For  this  reason,  an  accessory 
or  minor  character  is  often  used  as  narrator.  Thus 
a  story  may  combine  the  possibility  of  characteri- 
zation with  the  vividness  of  actual  participation. 
They  is  fittingly  told  from  this  angle.  The  blind 
woman  could  not  have  told  the  story  with  propriety. 
We  should  never  have  known  her,  never  have  heard 
her    cry,   "Children,    children,"   or  listened   to  her 

"  In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes." 

Nor  could  the  story  have  been  told  objectively. 
The  atmosphere  is  too  refined,  too  unreal.  We 
could  never  believe,  even  for  the  purposes  of  fic- 
tion, in  such  a  blind  woman,  in  such  spirit  children, 
unless,  through  the  eyes  of  one  who  had  seen  and 
known,  we,  too,  might  see.  This  story  —  as  are  most 
others  of  its  kind  —  is  narrated  in  the  first  person. 
The  "I,"  though  making  for  vividness,  must  be 
used  with  care.     It  may  at  times  become  obtrusive, 


96  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

it  may  seem  egotistic,  and  draw  to  itself  more  than 
its  due  of  attention.  At  times,  too,  it  may  go 
outside  its  limit  and  seem  to  look  at  the  story 
objectively.  There  are  several  ways  of  telling  every 
story,  and  one  should  search  diligently  for  the 
best. 

Sometimes,  the  participants  are  made  to  tell  their 
story  by  a  series  of  letters  or  by  entries  in  a  diary. 
This  method  is  rarely  used  and  is  exceedingly 
difficult.  A  good  letter  is  supposed  to  be  newsy 
and  full  of  detail  of  one  kind  and  another.  The 
letters  of  a  story  are  allowed  no  such  freedom. 
They  must  admit  no  detail  which  does  not  contrib- 
ute to  the  story,  yet  they  must  still  keep  their 
easy  naturalness.  It  is  hard,  too,  by  means  of 
letters  to  maintain  interest  and  movement.  One 
feels  that,  at  best,  letters  are  but  a  record  of  events, 
and  they  seem  to  lack  vivacity.  If  they  are  all 
written  by  the  same  person,  they  must  each  time 
suggest  what  has  been  written  back  in  answer. 
The  diary  method  is  subject  to  the  same  difficulties. 
It  is  likely  to  seem  yet  more  flat  than  letters,  for 
it  must  be  written  by  one  person,  and  it  is  addressed 
to  no  one  in  particular.  Marjorie  Daw  is  an  example 
of  the  successful  story  told  by  letters.  It  is  subject 
to  frequent  adverse  criticism  because  it  does  not 
continue  the  letter  form  throughout.  The  climax 
is  written  from  the  objective  angle.  Thus  the  story 
lacks  singleness  of  form.  However  much  it  is  to 
be  desired,  singleness  of  form  is  not  absolutely 
required  of  the  Short-story.     The  change  of  form 


STRUCTURE  97 

need  not  destroy  unity  of  impression.  Indeed,  in 
this  story  the  change  is  required.  The  point  of 
the  story  is  that  John  Flemming  should  be  so  influ- 
enced by  letters  that  he  would  go  in  person  to  The 
Pines.  His  going  must  be  actual,  if  the  story  is  to 
reach  a  climax.  Between  letters  there  is  expected 
to  be  a  time  interval  in  which  things  have  been 
happening.  The  break  which  comes  from  change 
of  form  —  in  a  story  told  mainly  by  letters  —  is, 
therefore,  not  particularly  noticeable.  Of  course, 
when  possible,  singleness  of  form  as  well  as  single- 
ness of  impression  is  to  be  desired. 

When  the  narrator  is  himself  a  witness  or  an 
auditor,  the  story  usually,  though  not  always,^  is 
a  story  within  a  story.  There  is  a  narrative  intro- 
duction of  one  or  more  paragraphs  after  which 
some  one,  generally  reluctantly,  tells  a  tale  which 
he,  in  turn,  may  have  witnessed,  or  may  have 
experienced  as  main  or  minor  participant.  This 
introduction  may  be  told  objectively  or  by  an 
impersonal  "I."  An  example  or  two  may  make 
the  method  more  clear.  The  Man  Who  Would  Be 
King  begins  with  the  impersonal  "I"  as  narrator. 
In  the  introduction,  he  tells  of  his  meeting  Peachey 
Taliaferro  Carnehan,  who  is  to  be  the  narrator  of 
the  real  or  inner  story.  Ordinarily,  he  would  have 
relapsed  then  into  the  passive  hstener  and  Peachey 
would  have  taken  up  the  story.  It  is  not  so  in  this 
case.  Peachey  Carnehan  is  to  be  an  active  par- 
ticipant only  a  little  less  important  than  the  main 
1  Mrs.  Knollys  is  an  exception. 


98  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

character,  Dravot.  Furthermore,  he  does  not  tell 
his  story  as  a  story,  but  as  the  recital  of  his  adven- 
tures in  Kafiristan  with  his  friend.  Moreover,  he 
is  half  crazed.  Under  these  conditions,  he  can 
characterize  neither  his  friend  nor  himself.  Yet 
one  needs  to  know  the  two  characters  and  to  be 
interested  in  their  adventure  before  the  real  story 
begins.  The  impersonal  "I"  introduces,  there- 
fore, not  only  Carnehan  but  Dravot,  and  tells 
something  of  his  own  experience  with  them.  The 
structure  is  thus  somewhat  complicated. 

The  Madonna  of  the  Future  illustrates  a  slightly 
different  and  more  usual  type.  The  introduction 
is  again  told  by  the  impersonal  "I."  This  time 
there  is  presented  the  conventional  group  of  talkers, 
one  of  whom  makes  a  remark  which  leads  the  others 
to  demand  of  him  the  suggested  story.  He  then 
begins,  and,  since  he  is  a  minor  participant,  hardly 
more  than  a  witness,  is  free  to  describe  fully  the 
main  character  and  comment  upon  him  at  will. 
There  are,  of  course,  still  other  methods  of  varying 
this  device,  which  has  been  in  use  since  the  times 
of  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer.  Of  course,  the  device 
adds  vividness  and  plausibihty,  but  it  fails  in  several 
respects.  It  is  hard  to  find  an  introduction  fresh 
and  original.  At  times  there  may  be  ambiguity 
as  to  just  who  is  talking;  too  many  details  may  be 
introduced  at  the  beginning.  The  device  may  de- 
tract attention  from  the  story  to  the  manner  of 
its  telling,  and  it  may  —  it  frequently  does  —  rise 
to   a  dramatic   height  in   the   telling  which  seems 


STRUCTURE  99 

unnatural  for  an  oral  narrator.     The  story  may  thus 
fail  to  convince  of  its  reality.^ 

It  seems  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  a  story 
must  above  all  else  impress  a  reader  with  its  genu- 
ineness. All  the  minutiai  of  structure  should  be 
arranged  with  an  eye  to  verisimilitude.  To  be 
convincing,  a  story  must  seem  so  real  that  one  can 
believe  that  it  happened  or  seem  to  see  it  happening 
before  one's  eyes.  If  one  feels  that  one's  credulity 
is  being  imposed  upon,  one  turns  away  in  disgust. 
Even  a  fairy  story  must  for  the  time  seem  real,  if 
it  is  to  prove  interesting;  it  must  have  qualities 
which  will  make  the  imagination  move  with  it  in 
utter  subjection.  Rarely  do  grown  people  enjoy 
fairy  stories  as  do  children,  for  the  obvious  reason 

1  It  is  worth  while  to  note  the  relative  frequency  of  use  of 
these  "angles  of  narration"  by  several  of  the  great  Short-story 
writers.  In  136  stories  of  Maupassant,  the  objective  angle  is 
found  in  Gl;  that  of  participant,  in  21;  of  witness  or  auditor, 
in  4;  of  the  story  within  a  story,  in  17  +  33.  For  72  stories 
of  Kipling  the  record  is:  objective  angle,  40;  participant,  9; 
witness  or  auditor,  13;  story  within  a  story,  0+10.  For  135 
stories  of  0.  Henry,  it  is:  objective,  100;  participant,  13;  wit- 
ness or  auditor,  10;  story  within  a  story,  0  +  12.  For  33  of  Poe, 
it  is  3,  objective;  23,  participant;  5,  witness  or  auditor;  0  +  2, 
story  within  a  story.  Out  of  10  stories  of  Stevenson,  7  have 
the  objective  angle;  2,  that  of  participant;  0,  that  of  witness 
or  auditor;  0  +  1,  that  of  the  story  within  a  story.  For  26 
stories  of  Henry  James  the  record  is;  14,  objective;  5,  parti- 
cipant; 3,  witness  or  auditor;  0  +  4,  story  within  a  story. 
When  two  numbers  are  given  for  a  story  within  a  story,  the 
first  signifies  those  whose  introductions  are  objective;  the  sec- 
ond, those  which  have  an  introduction  by  an  auditor  or  wit- 
ness. Not  all  the  stories  examined  conform  to  the  strictly 
modern  Short-story  form. 


100  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

that  the  imaginations  of  mature  persons  have  been 
bkmted  by  contact  with  an  actual  world.  They  no 
longer  have  the  power  to  move  in  and  out  through 
fanciful  realms,  to  slay  dragons,  and  to  find  dwarfs 
beneath  the  roots  of  mammoth  trees.  For  them, 
real  dragons  of  an  actual  world  must  be  slain  by  real 
people.  Men  and  women  pride  themselves  on  their 
ability  to  discern  between  the  true  and  the  false. 
They  will  not  suffer  themselves  to  be  chased  by 
imaginary  robbers  nor  will  they  kneel  to  await  the 
stroke  of  fantastic  battle-axemen.  So  long  as  they 
feel  that  a  story  is  all  make-believe,  nothing  can 
persuade  them  to  read  it  in  more  than  a  half-hearted 
way,  if,  indeed,  they  read  it  at  all.  "In  other  words 
a  realist  that  is  an  artist  as  well,  selects  not  only 
what  is  true,  but  also  what  will  immediately  without 
argument  seem  true."  ^ 

No  one  supposes  nowadays,  that  a  story  to  seem 
genuine  must  be  "an  exact  transcript  of  life."  The 
skilful  artist  masks  the  actual  by  the  real;  he  tears 
down  only  that  he  may  build  something  more  ideally 
beautiful  and  true.  A  character  trait  may  be  made 
to  stand  out  in  exaggerated  significance,  an  incident 
may  be  shorn  of  half  its  detail,  a  motive  may  be 
entirely  suppressed,  yet  the  story  may  be  lifelike, 
and  true  in  its  underlying  idea.  The  most  wildly 
imaginative  tale,  however,  may  have  truth  of  idea 
and  still  fail  to  be  convincing.  It  may  need  some- 
thing to  link  it  with  actual  experience,  some  con- 
tact with  what  one  knows  personally.     In  They,  the 

1  Pansier,  Types  of  Prose  Narratives,  p.  429. 


STRUCTURE  101 

reader  is  made  to  approach  very  near  the  unreal  and 
purely  fanciful,  yet  Kipling  has  made  certain  that 
the  story  shall  be  convincing.  Spirit  children 
and  an  automobile  speeding  across  the  downs  seem 
incongruous.  At  first  the  idea  seems  lo  jar  one's 
sense  of  propriety.  Yet  the  careful  description  of 
the  race  across  the  downs  and  the  later  repairing  of 
the  machine  certainly  place  the  story  in  present  times 
and  link  it  to  the  vulgar  earth.  The  automobile  is, 
however,  not  a  part  of  the  external  description,  a 
mere  something  thrown  in  to  make  the  story  more 
plausible;  it  is  a  part  of  the  story  itself.  But  for  it, 
there  would  have  been  no  story;  for  iL  is  the  machine, 
rare  in  those  parts,  that  first  stirs  the  woman's 
interest.  By  frequent  contact  with  actuahty  the 
whole  story  becomes  convincing.  Poe's  stories  are 
convincing  by  their  vividness.  They  are  not  real, 
not  actual,  they  seem  a  collection  of  bad  dreams; 
yet,  while  reading  them,  one  falls  completely  under 
their  spell.  Kipling  made  the  story  of  The  Man 
Who  Would  Be  King  —  wild  and  fantastic  as  it  is  — 
seem  real  partly  by  making  one  feel  the  burning, 
suffocating  heat  of  a  summer  night  in  India.  We 
have  not  all  known  India,  but  we  have  all  known 
heat  of  some  sort,  and,  in  our  imaginations,  are  able 
to  intensify  it.  By  any  of  these  ways,  or  by  all  of 
them,  a  story  may  be  made  convincing. 

Of  course,  to  make  a  story  seem  true,  one  need  not 
limit  oneself  to  incidents  and  extended  descriptions. 
Details  scattered  here  and  there  throughout  the 
story  are  equally  effective.     If  a  girl  faints  at  sight 


102  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

of  a  COW,  by  all  means  one  should  call  it  a  red 
cow  or  a  black.  If  the  setting  is  a  New  York  restau- 
rant, it  should  be  verified  by  a  few  rapid  strokes. 
Details  of  place  and  time  always  make  a  story  defi- 
nite. Characters,  too,  may  be  allowed  to  make 
confirmatory  remarks,  so  that  the  story  may  seem 
to  be  vouched  for.  Stevenson  at  times  used  foot- 
notes for  this  purpose.  Slight  references  now  and 
then  to  actual  facts  and  occurrences  help.  Of  more 
value,  however,  than  any  mere  device,  is  the  exact 
fitting  of  part  with  part.  All  structure  may  be 
made  to  count  toward  a  story's  verisimilitude. 


V 

THE  END  AND    THE  BEGINNING 

First  impressions  and  last  impressions  are  gen- 
erally the  most  definite;  first,  because  the  mind  is 
free  and  ready  to  receive  them;  last,  because  noth- 
ing may  follow  to  modify  or  to  change  them.  It  is 
natural,  therefore,  that  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  any  discourse  are  important  structurally,  and 
that  of  the  two,  end  deserves  the  more  careful 
handUng,  In  the  Short-story,  end  is  far  more 
important  than  is  beginning;  it  marks  the  point  of 
deepest  impression.  From  the  start,  the  end  is 
kept  in  view.  To  it,  one  looks  with  greatest  expecta- 
tion. For  it,  all  the  momentum  of  the  story  gathers. 
It  is  not  a  summation  as  is  the  end  of  a  debate;  it 
is  rather  the  final  enforcement  of  the  single  effect. 
If  the  end  is  sharp,  it  will  intensify  the  single  impres- 
sron;  if  it  is  weak,  it  may  dissipate  it  and  leave  the 
reader  disappointed.  A  story  should  never  promise 
more  than  it  can  fulfil.  Unless  the  end  is  satis- 
factory, the  whole  story  fails.  A  piece  of  pottery 
may  be  artistically  modeled,  but  if  it  breaks  in  the 
last  burning,  it  is  worse  than  useless,  for  it  represents 
waste.  Unless  a  story  fulfils  one's  expectations,  it 
is  but  a  waste  of  time  and  energy.  It  is  the  function 
of  the  end  not  only  to  bring  a  story  to  a  fitting  close, 


104  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

but  to  fill  it  out  to  completeness  by  presenting  the 
single  impression  in  its  final  intensity. 

There  is,  of  course,  no  one  best  way  of  ending  a 
story.  One  must  be  guided  by  the  nature  of  the 
story  and  of  the  single  impression  to  be  presented. 
One  story  may  stop  abruptly  at  the  moment  of 
climax;  others  must  continue  for  a  few  sentences  or 
for  a  few  paragraphs.  All,  however,  should  end  the 
moment  the  story  is  complete.  All  extra  words 
at  the  last  detract  from  the  impression.  A  more 
simple,  less  prolonged  end  would  have  been  possible 
in  The  Madonna  of  the  Future.  One  feels  satisfied 
after  Mr.  Theobald's  death  to  know  that  he  lay 
buried  in  his  beloved  Florence,  and  one  rather  resents 
in  the  story  the  further  intrusion  of  the  minor 
characters.  There  is  a  close  harmony  here  between 
structure  and  the  nature  of  the  story.  Long  musing 
and  idle  dreaming  would  not  have  been  well  adapted 
to  a  hurried  treatment.  Some  of  the  long  and 
partially  irrelevant  portions  can  be  excused  on  that 
account,  —  but  not  the  end.  Henry  James  was 
developing  a  situation.  Yet  with  the  passing  of  the 
dreamer  passed  also  the  dream,  and  there  the  story 
should  have  ended.  Too  long  an  end,  however  rele- 
vant, may  lose  by  failing  to  be  sharp.  Too  short  an 
end  may  be,  however,  just  as  dangerous,  if  it  fail  to 
complete  the  story  and  leave  the  reader  not  fully 
satisfied. 

An  end  may  be,  however,  at  once  abrupt  and 
complete.  Cfimax  and  conclusion  may  be  simulta- 
neous.     Nothing  is  left  to  be  explained;  the  story  is 


THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING  105 

its  own  sufTicient  comment.  The  end  is  the  natural 
and  unmistakable  outcome  of  the  plot,  yet  it  may 
be  unsuspected  until  the  last  sentence  or  even  until 
the  last  word.  Progress  towards  climax  may  be 
furthered  by  devices  so  subtly  concealed  that  they 
become  evident  only  after  the  story  is  reviewed. 
Such  construction  attains  the  ideal  of  Short-story 
form  in  rapidity  and  directness.  Notice  the  end  of 
Stevenson's  Markheim: 

"He  confronted  the  maid  upon  the  threshold  with 
something  like  a  smile. 

'"You  had  better  go  for  the  police,'  said  he:  'I 
have  killed  your  master.'" 

At  the  end  of  the  first  of  these  sentences,  the 
reader  is  still  in  suspense.  Is  Markheim  smiling, 
one  wonders,  at  the  thought  of  killing  the  maid,  or 
at  victory  over  his  own  evil  nature?  The  last 
sentence  relieves  the  suspense  entirely  by  giving  the 
answer.  One  cares  to  know  no  more.  The  story  is 
complete.  O.  Henry  is  a  master  of  this  sort  of  end- 
ing. The  end  of  nearly  every  one  of  his  stories  is 
a  surprise.  Until  the  fmal  paragraph  of  After 
Twenty  Years,  one  has  had  no  suspicion  that  the 
policeman  who  first  appears  is  Jimmy  Wells.  Yet 
when  one  reviews  the  story  one  recognizes  indica- 
tions of  the  outcome.  When  the  policeman  saw  the 
stranger  leaning  against  the  door,  he  slowed  his  pace 
and  walked  up  to  him.  He  would  have  acted  thus 
on  his  usual  round.  Yet  in  the  hght  of  the  story's 
end  one  sees  in  this  commonplace  the  action  of  a 


106  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

man  eager  to  recognize  in  the  stranger  his  former 
friend.  Later,  he  asks  of  Bob,  "Going  to  call  time 
on  him  sharp?"  Jimmy  Wells  is  making  his  plan. 
Still  later,  the  plain-clothes  man  impersonating 
Jimmy  speaks  of  his  "position  in  one  of  the  city 
departments."  These  remarks  seem  only  natural, 
yet  as  one  looks  back,  they  are  especially  significant. 
Without  them,  the  story  would  be  incomplete  and 
unsatisfactory,  for  the  end  would  seem  an  accidental, 
rather  than  a  necessary,  logical,  outcome.  Many 
stories  with  ends  such  as  these  are  likely  to  become 
wearisome.  One  fails  to  appreciate  surprises,  once 
they  have  become  frequent,  and  one  turns  with  reUef 
to  a  more  gradual  end. 

Often  the  nature  of  the  story  is  such  that  chmax 
and  conclusion  cannot  be  made  to  coincide.  The 
climax  itself  introduces  new  questions.  Until  these 
are  answered,  the  story  is  not  complete.  Suspense 
may  be  relieved  while  interest  in  the  effect  of  climax 
is  sustained.  This  end  simply  gathers  up  loose 
strands  and  satisfies  final  curiosity.  In  The  Revolt 
of  Mother,  several  paragraphs  intervene  between 
climax  and  end.  These  are  necessary  to  the  com- 
pleteness of  the  story.  One  needs  to  know  the 
effect  of  Mrs.  Penn's  act  on  the  neighborhood  and 
especially  on  Mr.  Penn.  The  full  force  of  the 
climax  for  the  two  main  characters  in  They  does  not 
become  evident  at  once.  In  The  Man  Who  Would  Be 
King,  the  end  is  long  and  somewhat  complex.  After 
the  climax  three  things  are  yet  necessary  to  the 
completion  of  the  story:    the  narrator  must  present 


THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING  107 

the  fulfilment  of  the  latter  half  of  the  purpose  ex- 
pressed at  the  beginning,  and  bring  his  story  to  a 
close;  the  reader  must  be  satisfied  as  to  the  fate  of 
Carnehan.  Usually,  an  end  is  less  complex.  The 
more  simple  the  end,  Ihe  more  forceful,  as  a  rule, 
will  be  the  single  impression.  This  sort  of  end,  too, 
may  conclude  with  a  surprise,  as  in  Marjorie  Daw. 
In  this  case,  also,  it  is  interesting  to  notice  how  the 
conclusion  has  been  prepared  for  during  the  story. 
In  the  fifth  letter,  Edward  Delaney  says  that  Mar- 
jorie Daw  seems  "like  some  lovely  phantom  that 
had  sprung  into  existence  out  of  the  smoke-wreaths." 
In  the  eighth  letter,  he  calls  her  "a  shadow,  a  chi- 
mera," and  he  speaks  of  himself  as  "in  the  incon- 
gruous position  of  having  to  do  with  mere  souls,  with 
natures  so  finely  tempered  that  I  run  some  risk  of 
shattering  them  in  my  awkwardness."  In  the  ninth 
letter,  again,  "it  all  appears  like  an  illusion,  —  the 
black  masses  of  shadow  under  the  trees,  the  fireflies 
whirling  in  Pyrrhic  dances  among  the  shrubbery,  the 
sea  over  there,  Marjorie  sitting  on  the  hammock." 
Of  course  it  appears  an  illusion  to  Edward  Delaney, 
but  it  all  seems  real  to  every  one  else  until  the  last 
sentence. 

There  is  frequently  found  yet  another  sort  of  end. 
It  is  neither  climax  nor  the  result  of  climax.  It 
answers  no  questions.  It  is  simply  an  intensifier 
of  single  effect,  or  a  narrative  comment.  It  is  easy 
to  overdo  this  sort  of  ending.  It  is  easy  to  make 
irrelevant  remarks  or  unduly  to  prolong  the  relevant. 
It  is  possible,  however,  to  make  this  end  a  means  of 


108  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

deepening  the  simple  impression  and  completing  the 
story.  A  comment  may  but  express  the  feeling 
already  in  a  reader's  heart,  as  in  The  Outcasts  of  Poker 
Flat  where  John  Oakhurst  is  called  "the  strongest 
and  yet  the  weakest  of  the  outcasts  of  Poker  Flat." 
Mrs.  Knolhjs  might  have  ended  with  the  words, 
"She  was  living,  he  was  dead;  and  she  was  two  and 
forty  years  older  than  he."  We  should  have  been 
satisfied  and  have  asked  no  further  questions.  Yet 
the  longer  end  brings  out  more  fully  the  pathetic 
sweetness  of  the  story  and  realizes  more  completely 
the  fmal  triumph  of  hope.  Notice  the  fmal  para- 
graph of  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death: 

"And  now  was  acknowledged  the  presence  of  the 
Red  Death.  He  had  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night. 
And  one  by  one  dropped  the  revellers  in  the  blood- 
bedewed  halls  of  their  revel,  and  died  each  in  the 
despairing  posture  of  his  fall.  And  the  life  of  the 
ebony  clock  went  out  with  that  of  the  last  of  the  gay. 
And  the  flames  of  the  tripods  expired.  And  Dark- 
ness and  Decay  and  the  Red  Death  held  illimitable 
dominion   over  all." 

This  end  is  unnecessary  to  the  understanding  of 
the  story,  but  it  intensifies  mightily  the  impression 
of  horror  that  pervades  the  whole. 

In  a  story  of  perfect  workmanship  there  should  be 
harmony  between  end  and  beginning.  Often  it  is 
noticeable  between  even  the  first  and  the  last  sen- 
tences. This  harmony  unifies  the  final  impression 
as  perhaps  no  other  structural  device  can.     Yet  the 


THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING  109 

device  need  not  seem  artificial,  for  it  effects  but  a  full 
close  and  manifests  itself  often  so  subtly  as  to  be 
scarcely  recognizable.  It  may  appear  as  a  corre- 
spondence of  atmosphere,  or  in  mood  contrast,  in 
identity  of  character,  in  the  realization  of  some 
suggestion  made  at  the  beginning.  In  After  Twenty 
Years,  the  first  paragraph  pictures  the  typical  police- 
man; the  last  sentence  shows  the  same  conscientious 
guardian  of  the  peace  with  the  heart  of  a  friend.  The 
first  sentence  of  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  awakens 
expectations  in  regard  to  John  Oakhurst;  the  last 
sentence  stills  them.  In  Mrs.  Knollys,  the  closing 
sentence  reverts  to  the  glacier  described  at  the  begin- 
ning. The  last  sentence  of  They  harmonizes  with 
the  vague,  elusive  atmosphere  of  an  indeterminate 
dreamland  suggested  at  the  opening  of  the  story: 

"She  left  me  to  sit  a  little  longer,  only  a  little 
longer,  by  the  screen,  and  I  heard  the  sound  of  her 
feet  die  out  along  the  gallery  above." 

End  and  beginning  may  be  so  skilfully  wrought 
into  harmony  that  they  suggest  much  of  the  inter- 
vening story.  Notice  the  first  sentence  of  The  Cask 
of  Amontillado,  and  the  last  three: 

"The  thousand  injuries  of  Fortunato  I  had  borne 
as  I  best  could;  but  when  he  ventured  upon  insult, 
I  vowed  revenge." 

"Against  the  new  masonry  I  re-erected  the  old 
rampart  of  bones.  For  the  half  of  a  century  no 
mortal   has   disturbed   them.     In  pace  requiescat." 


110  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

One  does  not  know  the  circumstances  of  revenge, 
yet  one  knows  the  means.  The  end  is  the  fulfilment 
of  the  beginning.  The  last  sentence  is  particularly- 
expressive.  The  revenge  was  complete,  for  the 
avenger  had  never  felt  remorse.  Thus  end  and 
beginning  should  be  considered  not  as  separate 
entities,  but  as  varying  expressions  of  the  dominant 
note  of  the  story,  set  in  the  places  made  akin  by 
their  importance  for  emphasis. 

Beginning,  in  the  Short-story,  is  as  indefinite  in 
length  as  is  end.  It  may  be  a  sentence,  a  paragraph, 
several  paragraphs,  or  even  pages.  It  may  shade 
off  into  the  story  proper  so  delicately  that  one  fails 
to  recognize  its  limit.  As  soon  as  the  reader  is 
thoroughly  interested,  however,  —  in  short,  when- 
ever he  senses  narrative  complication,  —  a  story  may 
be  said  to  be  begun.  One  may  thoroughly  enjoy  a 
narrative  description  or  exposition  without  being 
aware  that  anything  is  going  to  happen.  Yet  one 
does  not  sense  a  story,  until  one  sees  a  possibihty  of 
plot  ahead.  Some  additional  factor  offering  a  chance 
of  resistance  must  present  itself.  One  need  not  be 
able  to  hazard  a  guess  as  to  the  main  complication 
of  the  plot;  one  need  merely  feel  that  something 
interesting  may  result  from  the  situation  as  indicated. 
One  may  read  the  records  of  two  football  teams  and 
the  lists  of  the  weights  and  heights  of  their  respective 
men,  but  not  until  one  sees  the  two  teams  on  one 
field,  does  one  sense  a  game.  Thus  characters  in  a 
story  may  be  described  one  after  the  other  and  no 
complication   be  indicated.     If,   however,   they  are 


THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING  111 

shown  in  a  situation  whicii  will  bring  them  into 
contact,  one  awakes  to  the  possibility  of  interesting 
results.  The  introduction  of  new  and  different 
narrative  factors  always  presupposes  that  something 
is  going  to  happen.  When  plot  thus  begins  to  show 
itself,  interest  quickens,  and  the  story  is  begun. 

Although  varying  greatly  in  length  and  in  content, 
beginnings  are  similar  in  their  functions.  A  good 
beginning  should  set  the  emotional  tone  of  a  story, 
and  should  introduce  its  main  characters.  By  set- 
ting the  emotional  tone  at  the  beginning,  much  may 
be  accomplished  toward  a  definite  unity  of  impres- 
sion; since  a  false  or  jarring  tone  will  at  once  be 
felt  as  discordant  and  may  then  be  excluded.  Em- 
phasized at  the  beginning,  it  is  fixed  and  helps  to 
shape  the  reader's  attitude  toward  all  the  incidents 
of  the  story.  This  tone  may  be  fixed  actively  by  a 
striking  of  the  dominant  note  of  a  story;  passively, 
by  setting.  An  active  influence  is  more  rapid  than 
a  passive;  hence  the  beginning  in  which  setting  is 
prominent  is  likely  to  be  longer  than  that  in  which 
tone  is  fixed  by  the  dominant  note.  As  the  tones 
of  stories  differ,  so  also  will  beginnings  differ  in 
length  and  in  nature.  Not  all  tones  are  capable  of 
the  same  expression.  Some  may  best  be  expressed 
actively,  some  passively.  With  regard  to  the  second 
function  of  the  beginning,  character  must  be  present 
before  it  becomes  possible  to  sense  complication. 
Since  the  limits  of  the  Short-story  are  restricted  and 
since  minor  characters  are  introduced  simply  as  they 
affect  a  main  character  or  the  details  of  plot  develop- 


112  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

ment,  it  is  natural  that  main  characters  should  be 
presented  first.  Because  of  their  importance  they 
should  be  granted  the  emphasis  of  the  initial  position. 
It  is  not  necessary  that  in  the  beginning  characters 
be  fully  described,  or  that  they  appear  in  action; 
they  may  be  merely  mentioned  sufficiently  to  make 
one  sense  a  new  situation.  A  skilful  beginning 
involves  more  than  the  necessity  of  making  a  start; 
it  should  be  in  some  way  significant. 

It  is  usual  in  stories  of  character  that  character  is 
strongly  evident  at  the  beginning;  in  stories  of  action 
that  action  is  from  the  start  indicated;  in  stories  of 
atmosphere  that  setting  is  emphasized  at  the  first. 
Yet  aside  from  their  use  in  indicating  the  kind  of 
story,  these  elements  of  action  and  character  and 
setting  are  of  value  as  forms  of  beginning.  Of  these 
forms,  action  is  likely  to  be  the  most  immediately 
interesting.  It  may,  even  in  a  single  sentence,  set  the 
emotional  tone  and  introduce  the  main  characters. 
Even  action  may  be  presented,  however,  in  several 
ways  more  or  less  forceful  as  they  are  more  or  less 
direct.  One  may  listen  to  a  detailing  of  a  plan  for 
future  action,  one  may  hear  a  record-like  statement 
of  past  action,  or  one  may  actually  witness  action  as 
taking  place.  Although  many  times  action  offers 
the  quickest  way  of  presenting  certain  preliminaries, 
it  is  not  always  the  best  way  of  beginning. 

The  presentation  of  character  or  of  setting,  of 
necessity  less  definite  and  less  immediately  interest- 
ing, requires  a  more  extended  beginning  than  does 
action.     Since  character  is  necessary  to  complica- 


THE   END   AND  THE   BEGINNING  113 

tion,  it  may  fitUngly  begin  almost  any  sort  of  story. 
Yet  character  may  be  exceedingly  interesting  or 
exceedingly  uninteresting,  according  as  its  presenta- 
tion is  of  a  living  being  or  of  an  animated  stick  or 
company  of  sticks.  Combined  with  action,  char- 
acter is  much  more  natural  and  to  that  extent  more 
effective  as  a  form  of  beginning.  Setting  is  used  as 
a  beginning,  for  the  most  part,  in  stories  of  atmos- 
phere or  in  slories  where  atmosphere  or  setting  is 
important  as  an  influence.  Since,  however,  it  is 
valuable  in  effecting  emotional  tone,  it  may  be  used 
as  a  beginning  for  almost  any  sort  of  story.  A 
gloomy  description  makes  one  gloomy,  a  bright 
description  makes  one  joyous,  a  description  of  things 
vague  and  but  half-seen  makes  one  dreamy.  Rarely 
will  any  of  these  forms  of  beginning  be  present  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  others.  They  will  be  mingled  in 
varying  degrees.  Thus  their  advantages  may  be 
combined. 

Sometimes  one  finds  another  sort  of  beginning  — 
that  which  consists  of  generalizations  on  the  theme 
or  purpose  of  a  story.  Such  an  introduction  is  really 
a  prelude  to  the  actual  beginning.  In  generaliza- 
tions themselves,  one  can  sense  no  complication. 
One  must  await  the  beginning  of  the  application, 
which  is  not  expository  but  narrative  in  method. 
This  generalized  form  rarely  adds  to  the  force  of  a 
story;  it  is  not  vital.  It  may  set  the  tone,  but  it 
cannot  easily  introduce  the  main  characters.  While 
in  many  cases  introductory  generalizations  are  mere 
commonplaces  of  mediocrity,  sometimes  they  are  so 


114  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

originally  expressed  that  they  are  of  real  value  in 
giving  the  spirit  of  a  story.  A  dull  and  awkward 
beginning  is  a  mark  of  a  dull  and  inartistic  story. 
Unnecessarily  long  or  irrelevant  introductions  are 
foreign  to  the  nature  of  the  Short-story  and  but 
hamper  progress. 

A  beginning,  whether  long  or  short,  should  from 
the  first  arouse  interest  of  some  sort.  It  should 
be  so  uniquely  suggestive  of  character,  of  action, 
of  setting,  that  it  will  awaken  curiosity  and  stimu- 
late to  further  reading.  A  first  sentence  need 
rarely  set  in  motion  a  whole  story.  Yet  it  should 
win  attention.  It  may  arouse  interest  by  any 
one  of  several  slightly  varying  ways.  Perhaps  the 
simplest  of  these  is  to  put  the  reader  in  a  question- 
ing attitude.  The  first  sentence  may  seem  in- 
complete or  vague:  it  does  not  tell  all  that  one 
wishes  to  know.  It  stirs  up  in  the  reader's  mind 
questions  which  it  leaves  unanswered.  In  the 
hope  of  satisfying  curiosity,  one  continues  to  read. 
An  opening  sentence,  however,  may  present  no 
questions;  it  may  in  itself  be  mildly  interesting 
and  put  the  reader  in  a  receptive  mood  in  which  he 
is  willing  simply  to  settle  back  in  his  chair  and 
listen.  Or  it  may  create  an  unsatisfied  longing  for 
one  knows  not  what  —  just  as  does  an  autumn  day 
or  a  curve  in  the  road  ahead.  It  calls  one  away 
from  the  commonplace,  and  lures  one  on  by  its 
simple  charm.  Rarely,  it  becomes  still  stronger 
and  irresistibly  grips  one  with  the  intensity  of  its 
gloom  or  brightness.     At  times,  the  first  sentence 


THE   END    AND   THE   BEGINNING  115 

may  be  but  a  fact  statement  made  impressive  by 
the  unusual  significance  of  its  content.  Occasion- 
ally, too,  an  unexpectedly  exact  description,  in  a 
first  sentence,  of  something  familiar,  rouses  not 
only  one's  admiration,  but  a  question  as  to  the 
reason  for  such  exactness.  All  these  forms  are 
but  slightly  varying  appeals  to  one's  curious  interest. 
The  first  sentence  should  have  the  power  of  stirring 
this  interest;  every  sentence  thereafter,  that  of  sus- 
taining it  until  a  narrative  complication  is  sensed 
and  the  story  is  under  way. 

In  order  to  illustrate  these  principles,  it  may  be 
worth  while  to  examine  several  beginnings  in  their 
completeness.  The  one-sentence  beginning  of  The 
Cask  of  Amontillado  has  been  already  quoted  and 
its  strength  suggested.  Direct  and  vigorous  as  it 
is,  it  scarcely  surpasses  the  opening  words  of  The 
Revolt  of  Mother: 

"Father!" 
"What  is  it?" 

"What  are  them  men  diggin'  over  there  in  the 
field  for?" 

The  first  word  makes  one  listen.  It  is  insistent. 
The  answer  but  continues  the  question  in  one's 
mind.  The  next  sentence  is  still  a  question.  It 
relieves  one's  anxiety.  There  has  been  no  accident 
in  the  home.  Yet  it  arouses  more  than  curious 
interest.  One  wonders  why  so  simple  a  question 
demanded  so  much  urgency.  The  "diggin'  over 
in  the  field"  evidently  means  more  than  curiosity 


116  THE    MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

to  the  questioner.  Something  was  going  on  which 
she  had  a  right  to  know  and  did  not  know.  She 
had  not  been  consulted.  A  tone  of  wounded  sen- 
sibiUty  is  felt.  At  this  point,  one  may  be  said  to 
sense  comphcation.  There  is  trouble  of  some  sort 
in  the  air.  In  this  beginning,  the  main  characters 
are  introduced,  and  the  special  anxiety  of  the  ques- 
tioner singles  her  out  as  of  the  two  the  more  im- 
portant. Though  the  beginning  takes  the  form  of 
action,  both  character  and  action  are  plainly  indi- 
cated as  entering  into  the  story. 
Markheim  begins: 

"Yes,"  said  the  dealer,  "our  windfalls  are  of 
various  kinds.  Some  customers  are  ignorant,  and 
then  I  touch  a  dividend  on  my  superior  knowledge. 
Some  are  dishonest,"  and  here  he  held  up  the 
candle,  so  that  the  light  fell  strongly  on  his  visitor, 
"and  in  that  case,"  he  continued,  "I  profit  by  my 
virtue." 

The  first  sentence  here  puts  the  reader  at  once 
into  a  questioning  attitude.  To  whom  was  the 
dealer  talking?  In  what  was  he  a  dealer?  Of 
what  sort  were  his  windfalls?  What  had  just  been 
passing  in  conversation?  All  of  these  questions 
arise  from  the  first  sentence.  They  are  not  all 
answered  even  when  one  has  read  the  whole  of  the 
beginning,  for  as  one  reads,  one's  curiosity  is  turned 
to  suspicion.  The  visitor's  purpose  becomes  doubt- 
ful. Perhaps  he  is  not  a  simple  customer.  Com- 
plication is  sensed  and  the  story  begun.     The  main 


THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING  117 

characters  have  been  introduced,  the  dominant  tone 
of  restless  suspicion  has  been  set.  The  beginning 
fulfils  all  that  is  demanded  of  it. 

To  these  short  beginnings  that  of  Mrs.  Knollijs, 
comprising  the  whole  of  the  first  section,  presents 
a  contrast.  More  than  a  page  is  given  to  the  de- 
scription of  the  Pasterzen  glacier,  more  than  two 
pages  to  a  description  of  Charles  and  Mary  Knollys. 
Not  until  the  end  of  the  section,  when  Charles 
Knollys  slips  into  the  crevasse,  is  there  any  sensing 
of  possible  comphcation.  Meantime,  we  have  been 
made  acquainted  with  the  main  characters  and  have 
seen  the  glacier  slow  and  silent  in  its  moving, 
"hke  a  timepiece  marking  the  centuries."  As  the 
shadows  of  the  planets  find  reflection  in  the  face  of 
the  glacier  and  the  moonbeam  in  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Knollys,  so  the  tone  of  quiet  strength  of  the  one 
seems  echoed  in  the  changeless  affection  of  the 
other.  Character  and  atmosphere  thus  mingle  in 
creating  a  single  impression.  The  beginning  is 
long  because  of  the  necessary  harmony  between 
structure  and  tone.  The  spirit  of  the  glacier 
could  not  be  expressed  in  a  few  short,  hurried 
sentences.  It  must  be  impressed  slowly  and  grad- 
ually. Here,  too,  the  long  waiting  through  five 
and  forty  years  must  find  its  counterpart.  Notice 
even  the  first  sentence: 

"The  great  Pasterzen  glacier  rises  in  Western 
Austria,  and  flows  into  Carinthia,  and  is  fourteen 
or  seventeen  miles  long,  as  you  measure  it  from  its 


118  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

birth  in  the  snow  field  or  from  where  it  begins  to 
move  from  the  higher  snows  and  its  active  course  is 
marked  by  the  first  wrinkle." 

Slow  in  movement,  mildly  interesting  in  content, 
this  sentence  puts  the  reader  in  a  receptive  mood 
during  which  he  is  willing  to  listen  to  anything 
which  may  follow. 

The  first  sentence  of  They  provokes  no  questions. 
It  does  more  than  put  one  in  a  receptive  mood;  it 
creates  an  unsatisfied  longing.  Although  one  senses 
no  complication  until  the  appearance  of  Miss 
Florence,  one  is  interested  from  the  first  in  the 
beauty  of  shifting  landscape.  Like  the  narrator, 
the  reader  is  called  by  a  lingering  curiosity  from 
one  view  to  another,  from  "one  hill  top  to  its  fellow 
half  across  the  county"  —  until  one  has  passed 
over  the  Downs  and  along  the  coast  and  through 
the  wooded  hills  to  the  ancient  lichened  house 
and  has  seen  the  children  looking  out  from  mul- 
lioned  windows.  Here  is  set  a  dreamy,  vague 
atmosphere  in  which  indeed  a  Shakespeare  or  a 
Queen  Elizabeth  might  appear  and  call  one  in  to 
tea.  It  is  with  quickened  interest,  then,  that  one 
greets  Miss  Florence  and  finds  that  she  is  bUnd. 
Surely  one  is  about  to  encounter  some  unusual 
experience.  Here,  then,  one  may  set  the  limit  of 
the  beginning.  The  tone  of  mystery  has  been  set. 
Even  the  children  are  out  of  reach  and  seem  of  the 
atmosphere.  The  main  characters,  too,  Miss 
Florence  and  the  narrator,   have  been  introduced. 


THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING  119 

A  long  beginning  was  here  made  necessary  by  the 
elusiveness  of  the  story's  tone. 

The  beginning  of  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Dealh 
extends  through  the  first  sentence  of  the  second 
paragraph.  The  opening  sentence  interests  one 
because  of  the  starthng  significance  of  its  content: 
"The  'Red  Death'  had  long  devastated  the  coun- 
try." The  remainder  of  this  paragraph  of  expository 
setting,  by  thrilling  one  with  its  extreme  awfulness, 
sets  the  emotional  tone  of  horror.  It  is,  however, 
not  until  the  first  sentence  of  the  second  paragraph 
that  one  senses  complication.  "But  the  Prince 
Prospero  was  happy  and  dauntless  and  sagacious." 
This  sentence  sounds  the  note  of  alarm.  Something 
is  about  to  happen. 

After  Twenty  Years  begins  with  descriptive  char- 
acter-sketching and  setting.  Until  the  third  para- 
graph, when  the  policeman  and  the  stranger  meet 
in  front  of  the  hardware  store,  there  is  no  possible 
chance  for  complication.  Character  and  setting 
have  both  combined  in  giving  the  tone  as  one  of 
security.  The  shops  are  closed  for  the  night,  the 
rain  has  driven  the  people  off  the  street.  A  police- 
man alone  is  seen  on  his  round.  Then  when  he 
meets  a  stranger  in  the  door  of  a  darkened  hard- 
ware store,  suspicion  arises.  The  first  sentence 
here  is  different  from  any  yet  examined.  "The 
policeman  on  the  beat  moved  up  the  avenue 
impressively."  The  description  at  once  appeals  be- 
cause of  its  exactness.  To  move  impressively  is 
the  manner  of  all  policemen.     Yet  the  picture  pre- 


120  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

sented  is  so  familiar  that  exactness  is  unexpected 
and  awakens  immediate  interest.  From  the  first 
sentence  to  the  last,  the  beginning  is  skilful. 

The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King  begins  with  a 
generahzing  prelude  which  sets  the  "happy-go- 
lucky"  tone  of  the  whole  story.  The  first  sentence 
is  not  interesting.  The  motto  to  which  it  refers  is, 
however,  interesting.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the 
first  paragraph  adds  anything  to  the  interest  already 
awakened  by  the  motto.  The  second  paragraph 
suggests  the  rather  unusual  setting  of  a  rather 
unusual  story.  It  is  not  until  the  third  paragraph, 
when  the  narrator  and  the  huge  gentleman  in  shirt- 
sleeves come  in  contact,  that  complication  is  sensed. 
The  main  characters  of  the  outer  story  are  intro- 
duced, and  the  story  is  begun.  Within  this  first 
story,  Daniel  Dravot,  who  is  to  become  the  main 
character  of  the  inner  story,  is  introduced.  When 
Carnehan  returns  to  tell  the  story  of  his  adventures, 
the  inner  story  begins.  The  picture  of  the  man 
now  scarcely  recognizable  as  a  human  being  stirs 
curious  interest,  but  when  Carnehan  says,  "Kings  we 
were,  with  crowns  upon  our  heads  —  me  and  Dravot 
—  poor  Dan  —  oh,  poor,  poor  Dan,  that  would  never 
take  advice,  not  though  I  begged  of  him!"  compli- 
cation is  sensed.  One  tone  serves  for  both  stories, 
for  the  two  are  after  all  one  complete  story. 

It  is  evident  that  beginnings  may  vary  widely, 
yet  be  equally  perfect.  They  may  be  long  or  short, 
descriptive  or  expository,  indicative  of  complication 
in    the    first   sentence,    or   but    mildly   interesting. 


THE   END   AND   THE   BEGINNING  121 

They  are  whatever  the  nature  of  the  story  dictates 
as  best.  It  should  be  yet  more  clearly  evident,  too, 
how  close  is  the  relationship  between  the  end  and  the 
beginning.  Until  the  end  has  been  determined,  the 
method  of  the  introduction  of  the  main  characters 
cannot  be  determined  or  the  tone  settled  upon. 


VI 

THE    TITLE 

Every  story  has  a  name  which  differs  from  ordi- 
nary names  in  that  it  is  in  some  way  indicative  of 
the  story  it  represents.  It  may  be  derived  from  the 
theme,  the  subject,  the  characters,  the  setting,  the 
dominant  motive  of  the  main  character,  or  from 
any  of  the  important  structural  expedients,  as  the 
fancy  and  the  judgment  of  the  writer  dictate.  In 
any  case,  a  title  should  be  significant  and  justified 
by  the  story.  Although  simply  a  heading,  it  may 
serve  finally  to  bring  home  the  power  of  a  story. 
From  the  end,  one  turns  back  instinctively  to  the 
title  for  comparison.  If  possible,  then,  the  title 
should  seem  the  crowning  expression  of  a  story. 
Yet  its  first  use  is  without  doubt  to  point  forward, 
since  from  the  beginning  the  reader  is  on  the  watch 
for  its  explanation.  It  may  excite  curiosity  and 
attract  the  reader,  or  it  may  repel  him  entirely. 
Because  a  title  fails  to  claim  attention  or  to  make 
just  the  appeal  which  should  be  made,  a  good  story 
is  frequently  passed  over  unread.  At  times  the 
writer  may  chance  upon  an  effective  title,  but  prob- 
ably more  often  chooses  it  carefully  in  accordance 
with  the  nature  of  the  story.  Whether  it  occurs 
to    one    of  a  sudden  or  whether  it   is   deliberately 


THE  TITLE  123 

sought  out,    a   good   title   will   rather   generally  be 
found  in  keeping  with  certain  definite  principles. 

First  of  all,  the  good  title  is  brief.  It  is  in  no 
sense  a  resume,  it  is  not  the  full  story  packed  in  a 
few  words;  it  is  a  hint,  a  suggestion.  It  may  be 
one  word,  and  in  that  case  the  word  must  be  exceed- 
ingly expressive.  It  may  at  times  be  a  half-dozen 
words.  A  good  title,  however,  needs  only  occa- 
sionally to  go  beyond  this  limit.  The  length  of  a 
name  does  not  add  dignity,  and  it  may  detract  from 
suggestiveness.  Names  are  ordinarily  short,  be- 
cause there  is  no  necessity  of  their  being  long.  A 
long  title  suggests  a  long  and  rambling  story.  It 
inclines  one  to  believe  that  the  writer  has  had  diffi- 
culty in  cornering  his  ideas.  A  short  title,  however, 
does  not  necessarily  represent  a  short  story.  A  defi- 
nite idea  demands  terse  expression.  It  is  as  wrong 
to  tell  too  much  and  quell  curiosity  at  the  start  as 
it  is  to  intimate  too  little  and  fail  to  excite  interest. 
Here,  as  in  most  things,  there  is  a  happy  mean. 

The  good  title,  too,  is  found  to  be  unique.  It  is 
so  individual,  so  strikingly  new  and  original,  that 
one's  attention  is  immediately  fastened  upon  it. 
It  is  so  distinctive  that  one  cannot  fail  to  notice  it. 
The  value  put  upon  uniqueness  is  easily  seen,  when 
one  considers  the  striving  there  is  after  something 
new  in  the  way  of  advertising.  When  something 
surprisingly  original  appears  among  advertisements, 
it  is  greeted  with  general  applause,  and  for  the  time 
its  appearance  is  almost  as  popular  as  that  of  a 
new  piece  of  ragtime  or  of  slang.     It  is  imitated  in 


124  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

every  conceivable  way  until  it  ceases  to  interest, 
and  wears  on  the  reader's  patience.  The  case  in 
literature  is  analogous.  People  are  always  search- 
ing for  the  unused.  They  have  an  eye  always  open 
for  new  expressions,  new  comparisons,  new  epithets. 
A  fresh  title  is  esteemed  of  great  value.  It  is  cer- 
tain to  be  attractive,  because  it  is  unexpected  and 
untried.  It  is  just  as  certain  to  be  imitated.  The 
Man  Who  Would  Be  King  and  The  Man  Who  Was 
are  good  titles,  unique  and  pleasing.  If,  however, 
one  glances  down  a  catalogue  of  present-day  fiction, 
The  Man  Who  —  did  this  or  that,  will  appear  two 
or  three  times  a  page.  This  title  has  become  so 
common  that  it  falls  flat  upon  the  imagination. 
One  can  scarcely  over-emphasize  the  need  for  the 
unworked  and  the  distinctive  in  titles. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  names  of  characters 
often  fail  as  story  titles.  A  name  must  be  unusual 
and  of  striking  connotation  to  stand  at  the  head  of 
a  story.  Markheim  is  not  distinctive.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  name  which  indicates  anything  un- 
usual in  the  character.  One  might  easily  pass  the 
story  by.  Even  Mrs.  Knollys  fails  to  attract  atten- 
tion. Knollys  is,  to  be  sure,  an  uncommon  name; 
yet  there  is  nothing  in  its  sound  which  makes  a 
definite  appeal.  Unless  a  name  seems  indirectly 
to  indicate  something  of  a  character,  it  would  better 
be  unused.  Often,  however,  character  stories  seem 
most  naturally  named  for  their  main  characters, 
and  at  times  it  may  be  more  important  to  have  an 
appropriate  than  a  unique  title. 


THE  TITLE  125 

The  third  requisite  of  an  ingenious  title  is  definite- 
ness.  One  gains  from  the  name  some  clear  idea  of 
what  the  story  is  about.  The  title  is  not  vague  nor 
capable  of  being  interpreted  fmally  in  several  dif- 
ferent ways.  It  should  not  be  a  blanket  term, 
which  by  the  extent  of  its  possible  meaning  fails  to 
give  any  sharp  impression.  A  general  term  may 
easily  be  applied  to  a  story,  but  it  has  no  individual 
flavor;  hence  it  docs  not  excite  interest.  Fruit 
does  not  mean  plums;  flowers  do  not  make  one 
think  of  violets.  Balzac  named  one  of  his  stories 
An  Episode  Under  the  Terror.  The  story  deserves 
a  much  stronger  name.  Anything  might  be  an 
episode,  and  anything  might  have  happened  during 
The  Terror.  One  does  not  know  what  to  expect. 
It  is  the  business  of  a  title  to  particularize,  so  that 
there  will  be  something  around  which  one's  thoughts 
may  gather.  The  Tragedy  of  a  Comic  Song  seems 
also  ineffective.  Defmiteness  of  association  goes 
far  toward  making  a  title. 

In  addition  to  being  definite,  a  felicitous  title  is 
honest.  It  represents  truly  the  story  for  which 
it  stands.  Relevant  and  appropriate,  it  gives  not 
only  a  definite  impression  but  a  true  impression. 
It  refers  not  to  something  which  is  of  little  or  no 
significance,  but  to  some  character,  or  action,  or 
motive,  or  setting,  which  enters  into  the  life  of  the 
story.  Without  being  too  exact,  it  may  accord 
with  the  single  impression  and  in  some  sense  prepare 
the  reader.  The  Cask  of  Amontillado  is  an  honest 
title,  for  the  cask  is  the  decoy  which  Montresor  uses 


126  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

in  leading  Fortunate  into  the  damp  vaults.  When 
there  is  any  mention  of  desisting,  one  always  hears 
echoing  the  single  exclamation,  "The  Amontillado." 
Although  honest,  this  title  is  perhaps  less  exact 
than  that  which  Maupassant  has  chosen  for  his 
story  of  revenge,  Une  Vendetta.  It  is,  however, 
decidedly  more  unique  and  attractive.  The  Out- 
casts of  Poker  Flat  is  an  honest  title;  so  is  The  Revolt 
of  Mother;  so,  The  Necklace;  so  are  nearly  all  the 
titles  of  good  stories.  Absolute  honesty  is  perhaps 
the  first  thing  sought  in  selecting  a  title.  Whatever 
the  name  may  be,  it  should  be  able  to  stand  the  test 
of  the  reading  of  the  story,  and  should  not  leave 
one  wondering,  when  all  is  said,  as  to  its  application. 
Careful  writers  see  to  it  that  their  titles  are  pleas- 
ing; that  is  to  say,  that  they  seem  in  good  taste. 
In  making  stories  there  is  always  use  for  a  sense  of 
propriety.  There  are  many  titles  which  might 
startle  one  into  attention,  yet  be  essentially  vulgar. 
A  story  of  real  artistic  merit  has  a  name  aesthetically 
fit,  just  as  has  a  beautiful  poem.  Here  The  Brush- 
wood Boij  deserves  mention.  It  suggests  a  free, 
unsophisticated  naturalness,  which  arouses  pleasing 
anticipations.  There  seems  in  it  a  joyous  freedom 
unhampered  by  restraint.  No  less  pleasing  is  The 
Merry  Men.  In  addition  to  their  suggestiveness, 
both  of  these  titles  are  euphonious.  So,  truly,  is 
Marjorie  Daw,  which  in  other  respects  fails  to  make 
any  unusual  impression.  Euphony  is  valuable,  of 
course,  but  alone  it  does  not  make  a  name  effective. 
Even  in  the  titles  of  his  most  sensational  stories, 


THE  TITLE  127 

Poe  is  careful  not  Lo  offend  simple  good  taste.  He 
rarely  uses  an  unpleasing  title.  The  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher  has  a  certain  rhythm  in  its  move- 
ment. Berenice  is  certainly  restrained.  A  dcfmitely 
pleasing  title,  however,  is  always  an  advantage. 

It  is  still  more  important  that  the  title  of  a  story 
should  be  thought-arresting  and  compelling.  It  is 
not  enough  that  it  catches  one's  attention;  it  must 
hold  one  by  the  force  of  its  suggestion.  It  should 
be  a  spur  to  one's  imagination  and  set  one  to  think- 
ing actively.  The  Madonna  of  the  Future  is  such  a 
title.  It  is  modest  and  unassuming  and  might 
easily  head  a  magazine  article.  Yet  it  is  honest, 
unique,  pleasing,  and  thought-comp.elling.  The 
word  "Madonna"  is  associated  neither  with  the 
present  nor  with  the  future,  but  with  the  past. 
To  paint  the  Madonna  was  to  embody  the  ideal  in 
art.  "The  Future"  suggests  the  indefinite,  the 
unattained  and  perhaps  unattainable.  Thus  to 
link  the  two  ideas  in  one  title  is  at  once  to  suggest 
the  whole  range  of  thoughts  which  may  cluster 
around  the  striving  after  an  ideal  always  just  beyond. 
The  title  seems  almost  an  expression  of  yearning 
which  cannot  fail  to  arrest  and  compel  one's  atten- 
tion, and  remain  as  a  haunting  memory  in  one's 
mind,  long  after  the  story  is  read.  The  really  power- 
ful title  is  always  thought-compelling. 

Yet  in  making  a  title  thought-compelling,  all  the 
qualities  previously  mentioned  have  a  share.  Notice 
They.  It  is  short,  consisting  not  of  four  words,  but 
of  four  letters,  which  when  united  form  only  a  pro- 


128  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

noun.  It  might  refer  to  things  or  to  persons,  — 
though  one  naturally  gives  the  preference  to  persons. 
Whether  they  are  men,  women,  or  children;  whether 
they  are  in  the  flesh  or  in  the  spirit,  one  does  not 
yet  know.  It  is  obviously  unique.  In  some  sense, 
too,  it  is  definite,  for  it  points  to  several  persons  who 
are  already  known  so  familiarly  that  one  can  refer  to 
them  thus  in  perfect  understanding.  Its  indefinite- 
ness  is  its  fitness,  its  honesty.  They  are  the  center 
about  which  the  story  is  built.  They,  as  a  title,  is 
pleasing  because  it  seems  half-veiled  in  mystery; 
and  it  is  thought-arresting  and  compelling  because 
it  is  crowded  full  of  unrealized  possibihty.  It  could 
not  have  been  so  thought-full,  however,  if  it  had 
not  been  first  brief,  unique,  definite,  honest,  and 
pleasing. 


VII 

CHARA  CTERIZA  TION 

In  a  powerful  story,  with  excellence  of  form  there 
will  be  found  blended  excellence  of  characterization. 
It  is,  nevertheless,  the  restricted  form  of  the  Short- 
story  which  makes  the  task  of  characterization 
especially  difTicult.  The  means  of  drawing  char- 
acter in  the  novel  and  in  the  Short-story  are  essen- 
tially the  same.  The  only  difference  is  that,  while 
the  novel  is  unrestricted,  the  Short-story  requires 
an  intensive  application  of  methods.  While  in 
the  novel  one  may  listen  at  leisure  to  a  recital  of 
the  hero's  characteristics  and  watch  him  develop 
through  two  or  three  hundred  pages,  in  a  multi- 
plication of  episodic  incident  and  in  crisis  after 
crisis;  in  the  Short-story  one  watches  the  main 
character  in  but  a  single  full  crisis  and  sees  him 
portrayed  in  few  pages,  by  a  limited  amount  of 
incident  and  scant  description.  The  Short-story 
must  not  devote  time  and  space  to  non-essentials. 
Characterization  should  be  of  the  swiftest.  A  few 
sketch-strokes  must  be  made  to  do  the  duty  of 
whole  pages  in  a  longer  narrative.  Yet  the  char- 
acter must  be  defmite,  true,  and  lifeUke.  From 
the  way  a  character  meets  the  single  crisis,  one 
should  be  able  to  judge  how  he  would  act  under 


130  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

other  circumstances.  His  measure  should  be  taken, 
so  that  one  may  know  whether  he  is  a  great  man 
capable  of  great  things  or  a  little  man  capable  only 
of  petty  things.  By  what  is  said,  much  that  is 
left  unsaid  may  be  suggested.  The  essence,  almost, 
of  a  man's  character  should  be  indicated  by  means 
which  seem  perhaps  no  more  than  the  habitual 
expression  of  that  character.  Such  finesse  of  char- 
acter drawing  seems  almost  impossible;  yet  a  hand 
has  been  so  painted  as  instantly  and  unmistak- 
ably to  suggest  the  person  to  whom  it  belongs.  So, 
also,  a  Short-story  may  suggest  a  character  in  its 
entirety. 

Such  characterization  will  bring  all  one's  powers 
of  imagination,  of  observation,  of  reflection,  of 
sympathy,  of  insight,  into  play.  It  will  demand 
a  sure  technique,  a  deft  touch,  a  discriminating 
knowledge.  A  character  is  not  simply  a  record  of 
personal  appearance  and  external  pecuharities.  It 
does  not  consist  in  a  loud  voice,  an  affected  accent, 
a  stiff  manner,  an  unusual  gesture,  a  modest  glance, 
or  a  genteel  appearance.  All  of  these  things  indi- 
cate character;  they  are  the  outward  expressions 
of  the  real  man,  but  they  are  not  the  real  man.  A 
character  represents  a  whole  man.  It  consists  of 
the  sum  of  a  man's  habits,  physical,  mental,  and 
spiritual.  One  wishes  to  know  how  a  man  thinks, 
what  are  his  thoughts,  how  he  acts,  how  he  speaks, 
what  are  his  prejudices,  his  joys,  his  fears,  his  hopes, 
his  successes,  his  failures,  his  loves,  his  hates,  his 
disappointments,  his  capabilities,  his  crowning  ambi- 


CHARACTERIZATION  131 

lions.  Such  things  may  be  hidden  to  the  casual 
observer.  They  make  up  a  man's  personaUty,  — 
something  too  subtle  for  analysis.  They  may  fail 
to  be  observed  in  one's  best  friend  or  to  disclose 
themselves  to  oneself.  Yet  they  are  there  for  good 
or  for  evil,  making  one  man  into  a  murderer,  another 
into  a  saint.  Stress  of  emotion,  or  a  sudden  change 
of  fortune,  may  reveal  a  trait  which  has  been  for 
years  unsuspected.  So  many  are  the  variations 
and  shadings  of  personahty  that  no  one  individual 
will  appeal  in  the  same  way  to  two  persons.  At  one 
time  a  person  may  seem  even-tempered  and  gentle, 
at  another,  quick-tempered  and  stern.  The  char- 
acterizer  has,  therefore,  a  difficult  task.  He  must 
combine  all  that  he  feels  a  character  to  be  into  one 
suggestive  whole.  He  must  know  a  character  so 
thoroughly  that  he  will  reveal  not  the  man's  external 
characteristics,  but  his  personality.  He  must  under- 
stand human  nature  and  reflect  it  with  power  and 
much  sympathy. 

Although  it  is  impossible  for  a  writer  to  know  any 
one  individual  perfectly,  he  may  know  the  character 
he  chooses  to  portray  in  a  story.  The  writer  may 
thus  reconcile  the  warring  elements  of  character, 
make  the  inconsistent  seem  consistent,  and  the 
imperfect  seem  perfect.  The  character  which  he 
makes  will  not  be  a  portrait  ^  reproducing  the  exact 

1  "'Later  on,'  said  [de  Maupassant],  'when  M.  Dumas  asks 
me  where  I  found  my  woman's  face,  it  will  be  amusing  to  tell 
him.  In  a  shrine  at  Notre  Dame  des  Doms,  of  Avignon.  ...  I 
confess  I  have  not  found  in  that  figure  all  I  want  for  my  type 
of  a  woman.     Still,  I  saw  in  that  expression  of  face  the  uncut 


132  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

lines  of  an  actual  individual;  it  may  be  a  composite 
of  the  characteristics  of  many  individuals,  all  bound 
together  by  one  dominating  trait.  The  actual  facts 
may  be  culled  by  observation  from  life,  but  the 
character  will  be  shaped  by  the  broodings  of  imag- 
ination. "The  character  created  is  not  a  thing 
of  shreds  and  patches.  It  is  a  new  conception."  ^ 
No  amount  of  observing  and  arbitrary  piecing  to- 
gether will  make  a  character  worthy  of  the  name. 
In  its  making  there  must  enter  a  vast  deal  of  imagina- 
tive insight  which  will  recreate  and  make  a  character 
actually  live  for  a  reader.^     Because  a  character  is 

diamond  I  have  to  polish.  I  perceived  some  artistic  details 
which  will  be  of  use  for  carving  my  subject,  that  I  hope  to  make 
very  striking,  as  near  perfection  as  possible.  In  my  Angelus 
I  intend  to  give  all  the  power  of  expression  of  which  I  am  ca- 
pable; every  detail  will  be  cared  for  minutely  without  tiring  the 
reader.  I  feel  very  well-disposed  to  write  this  book,  the  subject 
of  which  I  possess  completely,  and  which  I  have  conceived  with 
surprising  facility.  It  will  be  the  crowning  piece  of  my  literary 
career;  I  am  convinced  its  qualities  will  awaken  such  enthusiasm 
in  the  artistic  reader  that  he  will  ask  himself  if  he  is  in  presence 
of  reality  or  fiction.'"  Recollections  of  Guy  de  Maupassant. 
By  his  valet,  Frangois.     Pp.  287-8. 

1  C.  F.  Johnson,  Elements  of  Literary  Criticism,  p.  54. 

2  "  It  is  to  be  noticed,  however,  —  and  here,  I  suspect  what 
Ruskin  calls  the  mystery  of  the  imagination  enters,  —  that  this 
process  of  abstraction,  selection,  combination,  is  mostly  not  a 
conscious  one.  The  wholes,  though  they  must  doubtless  be 
formed  of  elements  gathered  in  our  experience,  seem  to  spring 
into  existence  spontaneously.  The  poet  does  not  laboriously 
piece  together  out  of  his  treasured  experience  the  creatures  of 
his  imagination;  they  come  to  him.  The  elements  of  which 
they  are  made  seem  to  unite  according  to  some  laws  of  spontane- 
ous combination  not  entirely  under  the  control  of  the  will." 
C.  T.  Winchester,  Principles  of  Literary  Criticism,  p.  121. 


CHARACTERIZATION  133 

the  idealized  and  concrete  expression  of  what  one 
understands  of  human  nature,  it  may  live  for  one 
as  no  actual  character  may.  It  may  be  like  no  living 
human  being,  yet  like  all  human  beings. 

There  is  much,  naturally,  that  a  man  shares  with 
others  of  his  own  type  or  class,  and  much  that  be- 
longs to  him  individually.  Mis  character  is  com- 
plex. He  is,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  the  product 
of  external  forces,  the  resultant  of  his  own  will,  and 
the  expression  of  individual  peculiarities.  He  is  all 
of  these  variously  combined.  In  so  far  as  he  is  the 
product  of  external  forces  he  may  be  called  typical. 
The  reason  is  clear:  Etymologically,  a  type  is  some- 
thing "struck  out";  acted  upon,  therefore,  by  an 
external  force.  When  a  great  number  of  things  are 
acted  upon  by  the  same  external  force,  they  all  bear 
the  same  stamp;  they  are  typical.  Likewise,  when 
a  great  number  of  persons  are  acted  upon  similarly 
by  the  same  external  force,  they  are  shaped  accord- 
ing to  the  same  pattern;  they,  too,  are  typical. 
Every  variation  in  external  forces  will  cause  a  new 
type;  and  the  variations  may  be  many.  These 
forces  thus  acting  on  a  great  number  of  people  in 
the  same  way  one  may  call  environment.  The 
nature  of  the  soil,  the  contour  of  the  land,  the  climate, 
the  location  beside  forest,  sea,  lake,  or  river,  all 
affect  the  people  who  live  continuously  in  a  certain 
region.  Heredity  and  occupation,  too,  are  forms 
of  environment.  Kentucky  is  an  environment; 
so  is  prison;  so  are  home  training  and  inherited 
principles;  so  is  the  profession  of  law.     Mr.  Theobald 


134  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

is  typical  of  the  artist  dreamer;  Adoniram  Penn,  of 
the  stern  New  Englander.  Miss  Florence  in  They 
sings  "as  the  blind  sing  —  frorn  the  soul."  The 
typical,  though  always  present  in  character,  is  not 
always  necessary  to  characterization;  for  the  repre- 
sentative may  express  itself  in  another  way. 

People  may  be  grouped  according  to  certain  class 
characteristics  which  are  the  resultant  not  of  com- 
mon external  forces,  but  of  common  habitual  choices 
or  acts  of  will.  When  a  man  makes  a  choice  which 
will  advance  his  own  individual  interests,  even  at 
the  expense  of  other  persons,  he  is  said  to  be  selfish; 
when  he  is  possessed  with  a  desire  to  rise  above  his 
present  self  and  his  present  surroundings,  to  become 
more  important  than  he  is,  he  is  called  ambitious; 
when  he  does  a  thing  that  is  hard,  because  he  feels 
that  it  is  a  right  thing,  he  is  courageous.  When  he 
habitually  makes  such  a  choice,  he  becomes  a  selfish, 
an  ambitious,  a  brave  man,  and  is  classed  along  with 
others  who  are  actuated  by  a  like  habitual  motive. 
The  characteristic  which  he  has  thus  in  common  with 
a  class  may  be  called  generic.  The  generic  differs 
from  the  typical  in  that  it  is  produced  not  by  one 
common  external  force  acting  on  all  persons  ahke, 
but  by  the  workings  of  innumerable  like  forces  within 
the  characters  themselves.  Phillips  Brooks  and 
Senator  Lodge  may  both  be  called  typical  of  New 
England,  but  their  likeness  goes  no  farther.  Their 
generic  qualities  are  different.  One  might  conceive 
an  ambitious  New  Englander,  an  idealistic  New 
Englander,  a  truthful  New  Englander,  a  cowardly 


CHARACTERIZATION  135 

New  Englander,  a  shiftless  New  Englander.  Yet 
one  knows  that  these  attributes  and  a  hundred 
others  are  not  hmited  to  any  one  environment. 
One  must  reahze,  therefore,  the  quahties  that  go  to 
make  a  character  typical,  as  separate  from  those 
which  go  to  make  him  generic.  In  Mrs.  Knollys 
there  is  httle,  if  any,  of  the  typical  and  much  of  the 
generic. 

One  may  say,  however,  that  one's  environment 
is  frequently  a  matter  of  individual  choice.  One 
chooses  law  as  a  profession,  or  California  as  an 
environment.  Yet  a  man  is  not  brave  because  he 
performs  a  single  brave  deed.  A  habit  becomes 
fixed  only  after  an  act  has  been  repeated  again  and 
again.  Daniel  Dravot  and  Peachey  Carnehan  were 
ambitious,  yet  ambition  was  not  necessarily  with 
them  a  constant  aim.  They  were  habitually  ad- 
venturers, become  such  by  repeated  acts  of  choice. 
One  may  decide  to  be  a  bricklayer,  yet  one  does  not 
repeat  the  decision  with  every  new  job.  Nor  does  a 
lawyer  reiterate  his  intention  of  being  a  lawyer 
every  time  he  gains  a  new  client.  Choice,  in  such  a 
case,  is  final  and  decisive,  and  it  establishes  a  perma- 
nent environment  or  external  mold  of  character.  A 
farmer  is  still  a  farmer  long  after  he  has  ceased  from 
active  toil.  Thus  the  typical  and  generic,  though 
closely  related,  are  separate.  Of  course,  there  are 
at  times  blendings  and  overlappings.  Mr.  Oak- 
hurst  is  in  some  ways  typical  of  the  professional 
gambler,  yet  his  gambling  is  the  result  of  many 
separate  acts  of  will.     The  typical   thus  seems  to 


136  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

blend  with  the  generic.  Environment,  however, 
may  influence  choice  and  to  the  extent  that  it 
does,  the  typical  will  assimilate  the  generic.  A 
drunkard  may  be  such  partly  because  of  environ- 
ment, partly  because  many  repeated  choices  have 
with  him  become  a  habit.  It  is  home  training 
and  early  environment  that  have  much  to  do  in 
developing  the  state  of  Markheim's  conscience. 
The  variations,  the  combinations,  and  the  blendings 
of  the  typical  and  generic  are  almost  unlimited. 
To  them,  however,  must  be  added  yet  a  third 
element  of  character. 

In  order  to  be  interesting,  a  character  must  be 
shown  to  possess  individual  as  well  as  representative 
qualities.  Every  person  has  characteristics  which 
differentiate  him  from  every  other  person  of  the 
same  type  or  class. ^  His  individual  eccentricities 
are  his,  irrespective  of  any  external  shaping  force  or 
of  any  habit  of  will.  By  means  of  them  a  character 
is  made  to  seem  interesting,  lifelike,  and  convincing. 
Individual  characteristics  are  different  in  every 
person:  generic  characteristics,  though  resulting 
from  individual  choice,  are  common  to  a  class.  It 
is  generic  for  a  man  to  be  ambitious;  it  is  individual 
for  John  Flemming  in  Marjorie  Daw  to  throw  books 
at  his  servant  Watkins.  Lack  of  individuality  of 
characterization  results  in  flatness.  Love  stories 
seem  especially  liable  to  this  defect.     Their  charac- 

1  Cf.  Diana's  remark,  "Women  are  women,  and  I  am  a  woman: 
but  I  am  I,  and  unlike  them."  George  Meredith,  Diana  of  the 
Crossivays,  Boxhill  Edition,  p.  218. 


CHARACTERIZATION  137 

ters  are  sure  to  be  "popular"  and  "handsome"; 
Ihey  do  the  customary  things  and  make  the  cus- 
tomary remarks,  —  at  least,  the  remarks  commonly 
supposed  to  be  customary.  They  are  simply  lovers, 
and  on  that  account  are  supposed  to  be  interesting. 
In  fiction,  the  proverb  that  "all  the  world  loves  a 
lover"  is  not  necessarily  true.  Unless  the  lover  is 
individual  or  is  involved  in  unique  circumstances, 
he  is  simply  one  of  a  large  class  and  inspires  little 
more  interest  than  does  a  toy  soldier  moved  by 
cleverly  arranged  springs.  Marks  of  individuality 
should  always  be  definite,  yet  not  exaggerated.  An 
individual  is  not  necessarily  abnormal  or  queer. 
It  is  not  necessary  continually  to  call  attention  to 
peculiarities.  No  one  quality  will  make  a  character 
individual.  Individuality  is  rather  the  breath  of 
personality.  It  may  be  as  definite  as  the  fragrance 
of  a  rose  and  as  subtly  manifested  as  the  variation  in 
the  light-tones  of  successive  days. 

Individuality,  as  expressive  of  a  whole  personality, 
is  many-sided,  and  unites  many  contrasting  elements 
of  character.  Adequately  to  depict  it,  is  not  to 
emphasize  it  in  one  particular  alone,  but  to  appreciate 
its  varying  lights  and  shades  and  to  blend  these  in 
one  harmonious  whole.  To  show  individuality  by 
some  external  mark,  perhaps  a  manner  of  laughing, 
or  a  nervous  winking  of  the  eyes,  is  to  make  a  charac- 
ter of  wrong  proportions;  not  a  true  character,  but 
an  oddity.  Character  may  be  at  once  fully  rounded 
and  individual.  Sarah  Penn  is  a  woman  capable 
of  making  her  husband  listen  when  he  does  not  wish 


138  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

to  hear  her,  capable  of  drawing  information  from  her 
son  when  he  would  rather  profess  ignorance  of  this 
knowledge.  She  is  undaunted  and  somewhat  an- 
gered by  the  attempted  interference  of  the  minister. 
Yet  at  the  last  of  her  talk  with  her  husband  she 
assumes  almost  a  beseeching  attitude.  She  is  a 
careful  housekeeper,  a  faithful  wife,  and  a  mother 
solicitous  for  her  children.  At  the  last,  she  speaks 
to  her  husband  almost  tenderly.  Commanding, 
capable,  faithful,  tender,  she  is  withal  a  resolute 
woman.  Markheim  appears  with  "pity,  horror, 
resolve,  terror,  fascination,  and  physical  repulsion" 
written  on  his  face  and  manifest  in  his  actions. 
Confronted  by  his  sin,  he  says  of  himself,  "Evil  and 
good  run  strong  in  me,  haling  me  both  ways.  I  do 
not  love  the  one  thing,  I  love  all.  I  can  conceive 
great  deeds,  renunciations,  martyrdoms;  and  though 
I  be  fallen  to  such  a  crime  as  murder,  pity  is  no 
stranger  to  my  thoughts.  I  pity  the  poor;  who 
knows  their  trials  better  than  myself?  I  pity  and 
help  them;  I  prize  love,  I  love  honest  laughter; 
there  is  no  good  thing  nor  true  thing  on  earth  but 
I  love  it  from  my  heart.  And  are  my  vices  only  to 
direct  my  hfe  and  my  virtues  to  lie  without  effect, 
like  some  passive  lumber  of  the  mind?  Not  so; 
good,  also,  is  a  spring  of  acts." 

Variations  are  evident  between  one  character 
and  another;  changes  occur,  likewise,  from  time 
to  time  in  the  same  character.  Development  or 
deterioration  may  take  place.  One  expects  to  see 
such  changes  appearing  in  a  novel,  whose  province 


CHARACTERIZATION  139 

may  be  the  whole  of  a  life.  Within  the  briefer 
limits  of  the  Short-story,  however,  it  would  seem 
that  only  the  stationary,  the  unchanged  character 
might  with  success  be  handled.^  The  stationary 
character  is  more  easily  treated  than  the  progressive. 
The  portrayal  of  character  change  is,  nevertheless,  a 
legitimate  field  for  the  Short-story.  If  a  change 
is  sudden,  one  may  grasp  the  moment  of  its  occur- 
rence as  Stevenson  has  done  in  Markheim.  Less 
than  an  hour  probably  elapsed  between  Markheim's 
killing  of  the  dealer  and  the  time  when  he  gave 
himself  up.  Yet  in  this  time  Markheim  passed  his 
life  in  review  and  condemned  it.  Character  de- 
velopment, however,  generally  takes  place  more 
gradually.  In  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,  it  takes 
six  days  to  bring  out  the  latent  good  of  the  charac- 
ters. During  this  time  of  privation  and  danger  the 
outcasts  manifest  what  would  otherwise  have  re- 
mained unsuspected;  their  characters  seem,  as  it 
were,  to  unfold.  It  is  not  actual  growth  that  takes 
place;  it  is,  nevertheless,  real  development.  They 
are  stronger  men  and  women  than  they  were  when 
they  left  Poker  Flat.  Mrs.  Knollys  is  less  notice- 
ably progressive.  The  change  in  her  character  is  a 
maturing  of  what  has  been  already  seen;  it  is  the 
change  from  a  green  to  a  fully  ripened  purple  grape. 

'  By  development  of  character  in  a  story  one  may  mean  two 
different  things.  One  may  refer  to  the  actual  change  which 
takes  place  in  a  character;  one  may  mean,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  change  in  the  reader's  conception  of  a  character  from  start 
to  finish.  Of  course,  one's  idea  of  character,  however,  may  or 
may  not  develop  within  the  limits  of  the  story. 


140  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

It,  too,  is  a  real  development.  Thus  a  Short-story 
may  not  represent  the  development  of  a  complete 
character,  but  it  may  show  fully  the  development 
of  character  in  one  respect. 

A  character,  whether  stationary  or  progressive,  is 
best  portrayed  by  what  he  says  and  does  in  the  main 
story-incident.  No  amount  of  exposition  or  descrip- 
tion will  make  us  realize  a  character  as  does  the 
main  incident  in  which  he  is  involved.  In  it,  the 
whole  man  may  be  displayed.  Typical,  generic, 
and  individual  characteristics  appear.  The  generic 
which  constitutes  the  motive  for  action  will  there 
be  made  to  reach  its  strongest  expression.  Minor 
incidents  may  show  a  character  consistent;  the 
main  incident  will  persuade  one  that  a  story  friend 
is  trustworthy  or  courageous.  To  persuade  in  a 
story  is,  however,  somewhat  different  from  persuad- 
ing by  force  of  logic  in  a  cold,  scientific  treatise. 
In  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  in  business,  and  in 
science,  a  man  demands  proof.  He  knows  well 
that  the  strongly  consistent  act  is  not  the  defining 
act.  When  he  reads  a  story,  however,  he  adopts  a 
different  attitude;  his  reason  is  subordinated  to  his 
imagination.  He  is  then  usually  satisfied  to  judge 
of  character  by  inference  from  the  strongly  con- 
sistent act.  In  his  estimate  of  friends,  he  acts 
similarly.  Rarely  does  he  see  a  friend  undergo  a 
defining  test  of  character.  Because  he  has  talked 
with  him  and  watched  him,  because  he  has  found 
him  consistent  in  all  that  he  knows  of  him,  he  accepts 
him  as  a  friend,  never  doubting.     In  a  storv,  further- 


CHARACTERIZATION  141 

more,  he  trusts  the  writer's  conception  of  a  man, 
for  the  writer  knew  the  character  more  intimately 
than  the  reader  knows  him.  If  the  writer  intended 
the  character  as  such  a  man,  the  reader  usually  asks 
no  further  guaranty. 

A  defining  test  of  a  character  trait,  although 
perhaps  not  always  essential,  is  desirable,  —  es- 
pecially in  the  character  story.  John  Oakhurst  is 
defined,  for  he  met  the  supreme  test  of  his  acceptance 
of  chance.  Markheim,  also,  is  defined,  for  he  did 
the  thing  that  was  hardest  for  him  to  do.  Mr. 
Theobald  is  defined,  for  he  failed  in  his  masterpiece. 
Is  Mrs.  Knollys?  Is  she  not  the  merely  consistent 
character?  Nothing  depended  on  her  hopefulness. 
Charles  Knollys  would  have  been  found;  the  old 
guide  would  have  remembered  the  accident  and 
would  have  notified  Mrs.  Knollys.  Yet  Mrs.  Knollys 
is,  first  of  all,  a  story  of  character.  Unique  circum- 
stances and  well-developed  atmosphere  do  much, 
however,  towards  intensifying  the  single  impression 
and  making  the  story  powerful.  Exact  definition 
of  a  character  trait  occurs,  though  less  frequently, 
in  stories  of  action  and  atmosphere.  In  reading 
The  Masque  of  Ihe  Red  Death,  one's  interest  is  so 
completely  absorbed  by  the  description  of  the  ball 
that  one  thinks  scarcely  at  all  of  Prince  Prospero. 
He  is  not  strongly  drawn,  but  he  is  definitely  char- 
acterized as  a  selfishly  proud  man.  Selfish  pride 
governed  every  act.  Such  was  his  motive  in  retiring 
with  his  friends  into  his  castellated  abbey;  such, 
in  providing  the  magnificent  entertainment  for  his 


142  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

giiests  when  others  were  suffering  and  dying;  such 
again  was  his  motive  in  resenting  the  intrusion  of 
the  horribly  masked  guest.  MaHcious  revengeful- 
ness  on  the  part  of  the  main  character  of  The  Cask 
of  Anwntillado  is  clearly  defined.  Not  only  was  his 
act  premeditated,  but  the  motive  seems  also  to  have 
been  common  in  his  family.  A  man  capable  of  such 
a  deed  would  be  capable,  also,  of  much  lesser  acts 
of  revenge.  In  a  story,  what  a  man  does  or  says 
habitually  or  premeditatively  without  influence  of 
reward  or  punishment  indicates  his  character.  If, 
however,  the  main  character  can  be  shown  as  acting 
consistently  in  spite  of  the  certainty  of  reward  or 
punishment,  the  intensity  of  a  characteristic  may  be 
measured.  The  greater  the  intensity  of  the  charac- 
teristic as  displayed,  the  more  powerful  will  be  the 
story. 

Thus  far,  what  has  been  said  has  applied  almost 
wholly  to  the  main  character,  as  shown  in  the  main 
story-incident.  There  are,  however,  lesser  means 
of  characterizing  both  the  main  and  the  minor 
characters.  These  means  may  be  either  direct  or 
indirect.  Of  the  two,  the  direct  is  much  the  easier 
and  generally  much  the  less  effective.  It  tells  facts 
and  informs  the  reader  once  and  for  all  what  he  is 
expected  to  believe  about  a  character.  It  may  be 
purely  expository,  it  may  be  descriptive,  it  may  be 
a  combination,  partly  expository,  partly  descriptive. 
Such  characterization  often  fails  because  it  is  too 
detailed.  The  writer  has  perhaps  sought  to  gain 
definiteness  by  comprehensiveness.     He  succeeds  in 


CHARACTERIZATION  113 

boring  the  reader  by  a  mass  of  meaningless  details. 
Imagination  is  given  little  or  no  chance.  The  pic- 
ture is  often  but  a  blur  in  which  one  can  distinguish 
scarcely  anything  and  from  which  a  reader  wearily 
turns  away.  Clearness  demands  only  that  the 
essentials  of  a  character  be  brought  into  focus.  It 
is  possible  to  arrange  in  the  mind  only  a  few  details 
at  once.  Beyond  these  all  others  are  useless,  or 
worse  than  useless;  for  they  fail  to  further  the  single 
impression  of  a  story.  A  character  does  not  con- 
sist of  details;  it  is  a  whole;  it  is  not  a  bundle  of 
facts  to  be  presented  to  the  reader,  but  an  impres- 
sion to  be  made  on  him.  One  is  not  conscious, 
during  one's  reading,  of  all  the  structural  means 
whereby  a  story  produces  its  effect;  one  is  not 
aware  of  all  the  details  that  make  up  a  character. 
Where  details  are  given,  one  grasps  not  a  host  of 
disconnected  items,  but  just  those  few  w^hich  seem 
to  have  peculiar  meaning.  Unconsciously  one  fixes 
upon  these,  and  around  them  shapes  the  w^hole  in 
imagination. 1  They  are  the  part  which  one  has 
spiritually  discerned;  they  produce  a  harmonized 
impression;  they  enable  one  to  feel  a  character, 
not  as  a  specimen,  but  as  a  living  being. 

1  ".  .  .  but  what  may  be  called  the  incompleteness  of  imagi- 
native vision  does  unquestionably  add  to  its  charm.  We  have 
dropped  out  of  our  picture  all  irrelevant  or  unpleasing  details;  our 
attention  is  concentrated  upon  those  few  features  that  gave  us  the 
powerful  and  characteristic  impression,  and  all  the  rest  are  lost 
in  a  dim  and  hazy  background.  The  whole  picture  is  thus 
toned  into  harmony  with  its  prevailing  sentiment."  C.  T. 
Winchester,  The  Principles  of  Literary  Criticism,  p.  133. 


Ml  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

Any  analysis  of  thoughts  and  feelings  is  subject 
to  similar  objection,  unless  a  character  can  be  repre- 
sented as  actually  saying  these  things,  when  the 
characterization  becomes  indirect.  Occasionally,  it 
is  useful  to  show  the  way  a  man  thinks.  One  enjoys, 
in  Mrs.  Knollys,  hearing  about  the  scientist's  mental 
processes: 

"He  had  been  wondering  what  the  fish  had  been 
going  to  do  in  that  particular  gallery,  and  secretly 
doubting  whether  it  had  known  its  own  mind,  and 
gone  thither  with  the  full  knowledge  and  permission 
of  its  maternal  relative.  Indeed,  the  good  Doctor 
would  probably  have  ascribed  its  presence  to  the 
malicious  and  personal  causation  of  the  devil,  but 
that  the  one  point  on  which  he  and  Spliithner  were 
agreed  was  the  ignoring  of  unscientific  hypotheses. 
The  Doctor's  objections  to  the  devil  were  none  the 
less  strenuous  for  being  purely  scientific." 

If  long  continued,  however,  the  recital  of  one's 
ramblings  of  thought  grows  exceedingly  wearisome. 
Unless  the  reader  is  in  perfect  sympathy  with  a 
character,  an  analysis  seems  like  a  dry  record  of 
events.  If  the  situation  is  intense,  the  thinking 
may  also  be  intense  and  concentrated  on  one  idea. 
A  few  sentences  of  such  analysis  may  then  be  of 
assistance  in  showing  a  character. 

Direct  characterization  should,  whenever  possible, 
be  presented  gradually,  for  the  obvious  reason  that 
exposition  and  description  of  any  length  interrupt 
a  narrative,  and  thus  interfere  with  the  rapid  move- 


CHARACTERIZATION  145 

ment  of  a  story.  A  few  words  of  description  or  of 
exposition  here  and  there  throughout  a  story  will 
not  thus  interfere  at  all,  and  by  developing  one's 
idea  of  character  little  by  little  may  produce  an 
illusion  of  reahty.  One  may  learn  to  know  a  char- 
acter as  one  knows  a  friend;  each  new  sight  will 
add  to  the  conception.  For  several  paragraphs  in 
Markheim  there  is  no  direct  characterization  of  the 
dealer.  Then  one  is  told  that  "...  the  little  pale, 
round-shouldered  dealer  stood  almost  on  tiptoe, 
looking  over  the  top  of  his  gold  spectacles,  and 
nodding  his  head  with  every  mark  of  disbelief." 
Four  paragraphs  later,  one  is  told  of  his  "dry  and 
biting  voice."  Conversation  continues  for  some 
time  before  one  sees  his  "thin  blond  hair  falling 
over  his  eyes."  After  the  murder,  we  hear  that  his 
clothes  were  poor  and  miserly  and  that  the  body 
looked  "strangely  meaner  than  in  life."  Sarah 
Penn  is  characterized  directly  near  the  beginning  of 
The  Revolt  of  Mother  in  a  paragraph  partly  descrip- 
tive, partly  expository.  Later,  a  paragraph  is  de- 
voted to  describing  her  as  a  model  housekeeper. 
This  paragraph  seems  almost  to  interrupt  the 
narrative.  In  another  place  she  is  mentioned  as 
having  "a  patient  and  steadfast  soul."  Again  it 
is  said,  "She  stood  in  the  door  like  a  queen;  she  held 
her  head  as  if  it  bore  a  crown;  there  was  that  patience 
that  makes  authority  royal  in  her  voice."  At  the 
time  of  the  minister's  call,  "The  saintly  expression 
of  her  face  remained  fixed,  but  there  was  an  angry 
flush   over   it."     Such   is    the   gradual   method    of 


146  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

direct  delineation.  The  method  of  a  long  unbroken 
description  may,  of  course,  be  used,  but  with  less 
certainty  of  effectiveness.  If  it  is  used,  the  character 
may  be  most  naturally  presented  near  the  beginning, 
before  the  narrative  is  well  under  way,  and  before 
the  reader  has  himself  shaped  the  character  in  his 
imagination. 

Effectiveness  in  direct  characterization  may  be 
secured,  too,  if  the  statements  in  regard  to  a  char- 
acter, instead  of  being  expressed  by  the  writer, 
can  be  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  narrator-character 
or  of  some  character  of  a  dialogue.  A  narrative 
setting  may  thus  be  given  which  will  go  far  to  bridge 
over  any  apparent  break.  Mr.  Theobald  is  seen 
through  the  eyes  of  the  narrator-character,  and 
again  through  those  of  Mrs.  Coventry  and  of  the 
Signora  Serafma.  Jimmy  Wells,  first  described  by 
the  writer  as  a  typical  guardian  of  the  peace,  is  later 
characterized  by  Bob  as  a  friend.  Miss  Florence 
is  directly  described  by  the  narrator-character  of 
They: 

"The  garden  door  —  of  heavy  oak  sunk  deep  in 
the  thickness  of  the  wall  —  opened.  A  woman  in 
a  big  garden-hat  set  her  foot  slowly  on  the  hollowed 
stone  step  and  as  slowly  walked  across  the  turf.  I 
was  forming  some  sort  of  apology  when  she  lifted 
up  her  head  and  I  saw  that  she  was  blind." 

Later  he  says,  "She  stood  looking  at  me  with  open 
blue  eyes  in  which  no  sight  lay,  and  I  saw  for  the 
first  time  that  she  was  beautiful."     Delineated  thus 


CHARACTERIZATION  147 

in  relation  Lo  Llie  narrator,  she  seems  not  like  a 
wooden  figure  set  up  for  us  to  looli  at,  but  a  living 
human  being.  The  description  is  a  part  of  the 
narrative  itself. 

Indirect  characterization,  although  perhaps  more 
difficult  than  the  direct,  is  also,  when  skilfully 
used,  more  effective.  One  may  learn  something  of 
a  character  from  direct  statements  about  him;  one 
judges  far  more  by  inference  from  his  speech  and 
his  actions.  One  compares  him  with  other  men, 
notices  the  attitude  he  inspires  in  them,  watches 
his  dealings  with  them,  listens  to  what  he  says  to 
them.  The  indirect  is  thus  the  illustrative  method; 
it  is  the  expression  of  fact  by  concrete  examples. 
Its  manner  is  narrative.  Instead  of  benumbing  his 
imagination,  it  encourages  the  reader  to  form  his 
own  estimate  of  a  character.  A  policeman  may  be 
said  to  be  a  typical  "guardian  of  the  peace,"  but 
he  is  more  accurately  characterized  by  his  act  in 
turning  over  a  criminal,  his  one-time  friend,  to  jus- 
tice. It  may  be  said  that  a  woman  is  a  model 
housekeeper.  One  prefers,  however,  to  watch  her 
at  work  in  her  house.  The  act  is  more  convincing 
than  the  fact  statement. 

It  is  nearly  always  true,  however,  that  in  the 
Short-story  both  methods  are  used,  the  one  to 
supplement  the  other.  One  may  tell  of  the  play  of 
a  man's  emotions  or  of  his  dominant  motive,  and 
then  illustrate  them  in  speech  and  action.  One 
may  say  that  Mrs.  Knollys  was  hopeful  and  then 
show    her    exemplifying    this   hopefulness    through 


148  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

many  years  of  waiting.  One  may  call  John  Oak- 
hurst  a  gambler,  calm  and  clear-headed,  then  show 
him  standing  erect  while  the  other  outcasts  are 
under  the  influence  of  liquor,  or,  after  the  theft 
of  the  mules,  refusing  to  waken  the  sleepers.  "The 
big,  simple-hearted  guides"  express  their  sympathy 
for  Mrs.  Knollys  by  their  willingness,  in  a  pretended 
attempt  to  find  her  Charles,  to  descend  into  the 
crevasse.  There  may  thus  be  a  proposition  and  its 
demonstration.  The  indirect  method  may  extend 
even  to  the  direct,  for  even  from  a  direct  statement 
one  may  draw  inferences.  External  characteristics, 
thus,  may  not  simply  assist  vividness  of  visualiza- 
tion; they  may  contribute  also  to  the  expression  of 
the  intimate  personality  of  a  character.  By  har- 
monizing external  characteristics  and  character, 
an  inference  from  a  direct,  may  be  made  to  parallel 
an  inference  from  an  indirect,  statement.  Charac- 
terization may  thus  gain  additional  strength. 

Although  the  methods  are  different,  the  materials 
of  direct  and  indirect  characterization  are  much 
the  same.  Of  course,  some  materials  lend  them- 
selves more  naturally  to  one  treatment,  some  to 
the  other.  Action  lends  itself  almost  exclusively 
to  the  indirect  handling.  It  is  true  that  in  The 
Cask  of  Amontillado,  Montresor  begins  with  the 
statement  that  his  story  is  to  be  of  an  act  of  revenge, 
premeditated  and  perpetrated  under  a  guise  of 
friendship.  He  brands  himself  and  his  act  at  the 
beginning.  Usually,  however,  an  action  is  allowed 
to  be  its  own  comment  on  character.     Notice  one 


CHARACTERIZATION  149 

of  the  details  of  revenge.  In  assuming  a  guise  of 
friendship,  Montrcsor  keeps  continually  urging  For- 
tunate to  go  back  to  avoid  risk  to  his  health  from 
the  dampness  of  the  vaults  with  their  nitre-encrusted 
walls.  By  such  feigning,  he  disarms  any  suspicion 
that  might  have  arisen  in  the  mind  of  his  victim. 
Then  finally,  after  he  has  chained  Fortunato  securely 
in  the  niche,  he  turns  again  to  say: 

"Pass  your  hand  over  the  wall;  you  cannot  help 
feeling  the  nitre.  Indeed,  it  is  very  damp.  Once 
more  let  me  implore  you  to  return.  No?  Then  I 
must  positively  leave  you." 

All  the  cruelty  and  vengf-fulness  of  Montresor's 
nature  are  there  suddenly  revealed.  One  is  thus 
constantly  doing  things  that  reveal  character.  In 
refusing  himself  to  arrest  his  one-time  friend,  Jimmy 
Wells  reveals  a  certain  tenderness.  But  for  the 
evidence  of  the  milk  tallies  of  the  interview  with 
Turpin  in  They,  one  might  almost  have  ques- 
tioned Miss  Florence's  reality.  She  is  shown  to  be 
strict  in  business  and  aware  even  of  the  tricks  of 
her  tenant. 

Another  means  of  characterization  is  to  show  the 
effect  that  one  character  has  upon  another.  One 
person  may  inspire  fear,  or  admiration,  or  confidence, 
or  suspicion,  or  disgust,  in  another  person.  It  is 
comparatively  easy  to  state  that  one  person  im- 
pressed another  in  a  certain  definite  way.  "Even 
the  phlegmatic  driver  of  their  Einspdnner  looked 
back  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  the  schone 


150  THE    MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

Engldndcrin  and  compared  her  mentally  with  the 
far-famed  beauty  of  the  Kdnigsee."  It  is  said, 
too,  that  Mrs.  Knollys  felt  "almost  like  confiding" 
in  the  German  scientist,  for  he  was  "the  oldest 
gentleman  she  had  seen."  These,  however,  are  at 
best  merely  direct  statements.  It  is  a  far  more 
difTicult  task  to  show  an  effect  as  produced,  and 
yet  not  seem  to  drag  into  the  story  unnecessary 
incident.  Notice  how  skilfully  Stevenson  has  shown 
the  suspicion  that  the  curio  dealer  feels  of  Mark- 
heim.  When  Markheim  winks  and  turns  aside  from 
the  candle,  thrust  suddenly  before  his  eyes,  the 
dealer's  suspicions  are  evidently  increased.  He 
remarks  "a  certain  manner"  in  his  customer.  He 
jumps  back  when  he  is  suddenly  confronted  by 
the  hand-mirror.  The  reader,  too,  is  made  sus- 
picious, and  is  prepared  for  what  is  to  follow.  The 
device  is  here  obviously  effective. 

Personal  appearance  is  of  comparatively  slight 
value  for  characterization  in  the  Short-story.  There 
is  no  time  for  elaborate  description  of  how  a  man 
appeared  or  of  what  he  wore.  Generally,  only  a 
few  words  are  given.  Even  these  may  frequently 
be  omitted  without  much  detriment  to  a  story. 
Only  such  details  of  personal  appearance  are  used 
as  serve  in  some  definite  way  to  further  one's  idea 
of  a  character.  Daniel  Dravot  is  known  chiefly  by  a 
flaming  red  beard  and  Peachey  Carnehan  by  his  "eye- 
brows that  meet  over  the  nose  in  an  inch-broad  black 
band."  Both  men,  too,  were  large.  Aside  from  these 
statements,  however,  Uttle  else  is  said  of  the  personal 


CHARACTERIZATION  151 

appearance  of  the  adventurers.  The  descriptions, 
such  as  they  are,  serve  as  tags  of  identification  and 
to  mark  these  men  as  in  some  way  extraordinary. 
Notice  the  description  of  "Silky"  Bob: 

"The  man  in  the  doorway  struck  a  match  and  Ut 
his  cigar.  The  hght  showed  a  pale,  square-framed 
face  with  keen  eyes,  and  a  little  white  scar  near 
his  right  eyebrow.  His  scarfpin  was  a  large 
diamond,  oddly  set." 

The  description  is  short,  but  careful.  Its  purpose 
is,  first,  to  serve  as  a  basis  of  later  identification. 
It  fits  exactly,  however,  the  character  of  Bob,  the 
smooth  criminal.  It  is  a  hard  face  which  arouses 
one's  instinctive  suspicion.  One  wonders  immedi- 
ately about  the  cause  of  the  little  white  scar. 

Mr.  Theobald,  when  first  seen  by  moonlight, 
appears  merely  an  artist  with  an  artist's  hair  and 
costume.  Later,  seen  by  daylight,  he  is  described 
in  more  detail.     He  is  older  than  he  first  seemed: 

"His  velvet  coat  was  threadbare,  and  his  short 
slouched  hat,  of  an  antique  pattern,  revealed  a 
lustiness  which  marked  it  an  'original,'  and  not  one 
of  the  picturesque  reproductions  which  artists  of 
his  craft  affect.  His  eye  was  mild  and  heavy,  and 
his  expression  singularly  gentle  and  acquiescent; 
the  more  so  for  a  certain  pallid  leanness  of  visage 
which  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  refer  to  the  con- 
suming fire  of  genius  or  to  a  meagre  diet." 

There  is  not  an  item  of  this  description  but  adds 


152  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

to  the  effect  of  the  whole  story  or  deepens  one's  im- 
pression of  the  artist.  Every  detail  harmonizes  with 
the  character  as  a  whole.  More  use  is  here  made 
of  costume  than  is  general.  The  costume,  here, 
however,  is  uniquely  expressive  of  the  man.  Other- 
wise it  would  have  been  but  lumber,  detracting 
from  the  effect  of  the  whole.  Costume  and  personal 
appearance  that  are  not  uniquely  characteristic  of 
an  individual  are,  in  the  Short-story,  worse  than 
useless. 

Not  only  personal  appearance,  but  names  are 
suggestive  of  character.  They  should,  therefore, 
be  chosen  with  care.  Poe  wrote  fantastic  stories, 
and  he  fitted  his  characters  with  fantastic  names. 
In  many  of  his  stories  he  seems  to  show  a  fondness 
for  the  liquids  and  for  the  long  vowels,  for  they 
harmonized  with  his  effects.  Eleonora,  Ligeia, 
Morella,  Madeline,  are  some  of  his  women.  His 
men  are  not  so  unusual.  Still,  one  notices  Prince 
Prospero,  Fortunato,  and  Montresor.  No  one  cares 
to  imitate  his  names.  They  would  not  suit  our 
stories  nowadays.  Yet  one  may  well  follow  his 
example  in  fitting  a  name  to  a  character.  Mary, 
Sarah,  Elizabeth,  and  Kate  are  much  used  for 
simple  home-loving  women.  Writers  of  love  stories 
seem  to  have  a  fondness  for  Marjorie  and  Dorothy. 
Similar  differences  are  noticeable  in  the  names 
applied  to  men  in  stories.  John  and  James,  Robert 
and  William,  with  the  corresponding  Jim  and  Bob 
and  Bill  are  frequent  for  the  ordinary  man,  while 
characters  in  any  sense  unusual  have  less  common 


CHARACTERIZATION  153 

names.  There  is  no  rule.  Every  person  knows 
that  a  wrong  name  will  jar,  and  every  person  has 
a  feeling  for  names  appropriate  to  this  or  that  char- 
acter.    Usually  such  a  feeling  is  a  safe  guide. 

It  is  useful  sometimes  to  tell  of  a  character's 
accomplishments.  One  may  judge  him  not  only 
by  what  one  sees  him  doing,  but  also  by  what  he 
has  done.  By  the  nature  of  an  accomplishment, 
one  may  learn  something  of  a  man's  innate  aptitudes; 
by  the  difficulty  of  the  task  and  by  his  failure  or 
success  in  it,  something  of  his  strength.  Dravot 
introduces  himself  and  Carnehan  thus: 

"Now,  Sir,  let  me  introduce  to  you  Brother 
Peachey  Carnehan,  —  that's  him,  —  and  Brother 
Daniel  Dravot,  that  is  me,  and  the  less  said  about 
our  professions  the  better,  for  we  have  been  most 
things  in  our  time.  Soldier,  sailor,  compositor, 
photographer,  proof-reader,  street-preacher,  and 
correspondents  of  the  Backwoodsman  when  we 
thought  the  paper  wanted  one." 

One  has  already  heard  something  of  Carnehan's 
ability  as  pretended  correspondent  of  the  Back- 
woodsman; one  is  to  learn  later  of  Dravot's  success- 
ful mimicry  of  a  mad  priest.  The  men  are  clearly 
eager  for  adventure  and  capable  of  adapting  them- 
selves to  any  sort  of  life.  To  see  them  later  "  crowned 
kings  of  Kafiristan"  is  no  greater  surprise  than  to 
know  that  they  were  once  proof-readers  and  street- 
preachers. 

To  characterize  a  man  by  his  accomplishments  is 


154  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

more  rarely  done  than  to  characterize  him  by  his 
environment.  A  man  may  be  placed  in  an-  environ- 
ment which  serves  simply  as  a  stage  setting  for 
his  action.  As  such,  it  may  influence  him  and  leave 
its  mark  upon  him,  but  it  is  in  no  sense  expressive 
of  his  character.  For  environment  in  its  broad 
sense,  a  man  is  not  responsible;  for  environment 
in  its  narrower,  more  restricted  sense,  a  man  may 
be  responsible.  Thus,  a  person  is  to  a  certain 
extent  judged  by  the  room  he  lives  in,  by  the  books 
he  has  around  him,  by  the  magazines  he  has  on  his 
table,  by  the  pictures  on  his  walls.  In  mentioning 
with  contempt  Mrs.  Coventry's  appreciation  of 
art,  Mr.  Theobald  speaks  of  "that  horrible  men- 
dacious little  parlor  of  hers,  with  its  trumpery 
Peruginos."  A  woman,  too,  may  be  judged  by 
the  scoured  brilliancy  of  her  pots  and  pans,  and  by 
the  general  neatness  of  her  house.  One  knows  <^ 
something  of  Prince  Prospero  when  one  has  noticed 
the  gorgeous  furnishings  and  hangings  of  his  apart- 
ments. One  knows  something  of  Adoniram  Penn 
from  the  fact  that  he  would  have  two  barns  for  his 
animals  and  for  his  crops,  and  would  live  himself 
in  a  small,  uncomfortable  house.  Miss  Florence 
arranged  her  rooms  so  that  they  would  be  attractive 
to  children.  There  was  always  a  fire  in  her  hearth. 
In  many  slight  ways,  perhaps  by  a  sentence  here 
and  there,  characteristic  environment  may  be 
indicated. 

Yet  perhaps  the  most  common  and  most  impor- 
tant material  of  characterization  is  speech.     A  man 


CHARACTERIZATION  155 

is  judged  by  what  he  says  and  by  his  manner  of 
saying  it.  Some  men  are  fluent,  and  their  words 
hurry  forth  in  a  torrent;  others  are  reserved,  and 
find  difficulty  in  speaking.  Some  speak  in  affected 
language;  others  use  simple  and  natural  words. 
Some  speak  with  every  semblance  of  frankness; 
others  as  if  they  were  disguising  themselves  or  their 
thoughts.  Some  are  calm  and  deliberate,  others 
are  excitable.  AU  these  differences  in  manner  show 
differences  in  character.  Notice  the  German  scien- 
tist's slow  and  formal  discourse.  His  mind  is  bent 
on  science.  Notice  Mr.  Theobald's  enthusiastic 
discourses  on  the  beautiful  and  the  true.  In  all 
speech,  however,  manner  and  content  are  so  inter- 
mingled that  one  need  not  distinguish  them  in  their 
effect  upon  characterization.  The  contrast  between 
Carnehan  and  Dravot  expresses  character,  alike 
by  its  manner  of  expression  and  by  its  content. 
Each  of  the  men  displays  himself  frequently  in 
characteristic  speech.  Carnehan  when  advised  "not 
to  run  the  Central  India  States  as  the  corre- 
spondent of  the  Backwoodsman,''  because  "there 
is  a  real  one  knocking  about,"  answers: 

"Thank  you,  and  when  will  the  swine  be  gone? 
I  can't  starve  because  he's  ruining  my  work.  I 
wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  Degumber  Rajah  down 
here  about  his  father's  widow,  and  give  him  a 
jump." 

Notice,  too,  the  following  speech  of  Air.  Theobald 
when  asked  whether  he  had  been  very  productive: 


156  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

'"Not  in  the  vulgar  sense!'  he  said,  at  last.  'I 
have  chosen  never  to  manifest  myself  by  imperfec- 
tion. The  good  in  every  performance  I  have  reab- 
sorbed into  the  generative  force  of  new  creations; 
the  bad  —  there's  always  plenty  of  that  —  I  have 
religiously  destroyed.  I  may  say,  with  some  satis- 
faction, that  I  have  not  added  a  mite  to  the 
rubbish  of  the  world.  As  a  proof  of  my  conscien- 
tiousness,' —  and  he  stopped  short,  and  eyed  me 
with  extraordinary  candor,  as  if  the  proof  were  to 
be  overwhelming  —  'I've  never  sold  a  picture!  "At 
least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart!"  Do  you 
remember  the  line  in  Browning?  My  little  studio 
has  never  been  profaned  by  superficial,  feverish, 
mercenary  work.  It's  a  temple  of  labor,  but  of 
leisure!  Art  is  long.  If  we  work  for  ourselves,  of 
course,  we  must  hurry.  If  we  work  for  her,  we 
must  often  pause.     She  can  wait.'" 

He  is  a  dreamer,  pure  and  simple. 

The  speech  of  characters  is  generally  in  the  form 
of  conversation.  However  effective  it  may  be, 
good  conversation  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  write. 
The  first  requirement  of  good  dialogue  is  that  it 
should  seem  easy,  natural,  and  spontaneous.  It 
should  not  be  stilted  and  formal,  as  if  the  charac- 
ters were  talking  out  of  a  book.  It  should  not  be 
ornate.  It  should  not  go  to  the  other  extreme  and 
be  filled  with  unnecessary  slang  and  colloquialisms. 
It  should,  so  far  as  is  possible,  be  made  to  resemble 
actual    conversation.     The   second    requirement   of 


CHARACTERIZATION  157 

good  dialogue  is  tliat  it  should  be  interesting  of  itself. 
It  should  have  a  point.  The  policeman  and  Bob 
might  have  talked  about  the  weather  and  all  sorts 
of  commonplaces,  yet  they  did  not.  Unless  con- 
versation is  of  some  value  in  furthering  progress,  the 
story  will  be  better  without  it.  Ordinary  conversa- 
tion is  full  of  irrelevancies.  These  must  not  appear 
in  a  story.  If  conversation  is  to  be  really  interest- 
ing to  a  reader,  it  should  be  thoroughly  interesting 
to  the  participants.  It  is  most  natural  and  most 
interesting  on  occasions  of  more  or  less  dramatic 
intensity.  Yet  where  there  is  dramatic  intensity, 
care  should  be  taken  that  there  be  no  violation  of 
propriety.  Under  unusual  stress,  people  do  not 
express  themselves.  Conversation  in  They  is  sub- 
ject to  frequent  pauses.  The  most  natural  and 
interesting  conversation  is  that  which  imitates 
most  closely  ordinary  people  in  their  moments  of 
animated  discourse. 


VIII 
ATMOSPHERE 

Much  that  has  been  said  of  characterization  may 
be  applied  with  equal  aptness  to  the  making  of 
atmosphere.  Every  story  has  a  setting  of  some 
sort,  —  an  environment  of  time  or  place  or  circum- 
stance. Every  story  has,  also,  an  atmosphere  which 
is  the  vitalizing  influence  of  this  environment  and 
varies  as  does  the  peculiar  aspect  of  the  setting. 
This  atmosphere  is  an  effect,  pervasive  as  in  nature, 
intangible,  vague,  and  elusive.  It  is  always  present, 
though  not  always  in  equal  intensity.  Among  the 
mountains,  atmosphere  is  rarified;  at  sea  level,  it 
is  dense.  In  some  stories  it  is  scarcely  reahzable; 
in  others  it  is  an  influence  strongly  felt.  It  never 
makes  itself  felt  as  a  distinct  sensation,  but  rather 
as  a  pervading  sense  of  depression,  or  of  stimulation, 
or  of  apprehension,  or  of  any  of  a  man's  many 
moods.  Frequently  it  is  derived  from  association. 
For  many  people,  the  sight  of  falling  leaves  causes 
depression.  Yet  to  the  eye  the  sight  is  undoubtedly 
beautiful,  and  it  becomes  depressing  only  because 
of  its  associational  meaning.  A  century  may  have 
an  atmosphere,  a  dominating  influence,  —  so  may 
a  town;  so,  too,  may  a  person  or  a  group  of  persons. 
When  the  interest  of  a  group  of  people  centers  on 
thought  and  knowledge,  there  results  an  intellec- 


ATMOSPHERE  159 

tual  atmosphere.  Where  all  their  thought  is  of  busi- 
ness success,  they  create  a  commercial  atmosphere. 
Thus,  also,  an  atmosphere  of  gaiety  or  of  solemnity 
may  be  produced.  It  is  impossible  to  show  atmos- 
phere in  a  story  except  by  indicating  the  distinc- 
tive and  associational  elements  of  setting. 

Atiposphere  may  have  another  aspect.  While  it 
may  be  expressed  by  setting,  it  may  also  affect 
setting.  The  sun  looks  red  or  yellow,  the  moon 
yellow  or  white,  according  to  the  medium  through 
which  one  sees  them.  Hills  may  look  distant  or 
near  at  hand  as  the  condition  of  the  intervening 
atmosphere  varies.  Sometimes,  one  can  see  indi- 
vidual trees  along  the  horizon  and  the  windows  of 
houses  several  miles  away;  sometimes,  the  trees 
and  houses  near  one  are  scarcely  distinguishable 
through  a  fog.  At  times,  too,  one  may  see  things 
in  clear  and  sharp  definition  in  one  direction,  while 
they  are  veiled  in  mist  or  haze  in  another.  Atmos- 
phere may  even  show  things  strange  and  unreal. 
It  may  subdue  sharp  outlines,  it  may  distort,  it 
may  magnify,  or  it  may  define.  In  a  story,  similar 
effects  of  atmosphere  are  utilized  to  modify  or 
intensify  impressions  of  persons  and  things. 

Atmosphere  is  all-pervasive.  It  affects  all  parts 
of  the  story  alike.  It  is  the  medium  through  which 
we  see  all  the  characters,  all  the  events.  It  colors 
everything  as  does  a  red  glass  through  which  we 
look  out  upon  a  landscape.  Even  things  in  natural 
contrast  are  brought  under  one  influence.  Thus, 
all  elements  subdued  and  harmonized  by  one  atmos- 


J60  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

phere  yield  finally  a  single  impression.  It  is  in 
strengthening  single  impression  that  the  chief  value 
of  atmosphere  consists.  "The  consciousness  of  the 
presence  of  the  spirits  of  Uttle  children"  is  the  single 
impression  of  They.  The  atmosphere  is  such  that 
this  impression  is  possible.  It  is  of  unreahty  and 
mystery,  full  of  shadows  where  spirits  may  hide 
at  will,  just  out  of  reach.  In  Mrs.  Knollys,  an 
atmosphere  of  low  but  persistent  emotional  tension 
brings  out  the  beauty  of  a  triumphant  hope.  The 
scientist  offers  a  hope.  Yet  its  realization  depends 
upon  the  certain  but  almost  imperceptible  motion 
of  a  glacier,  dispassionate,  unrelenting.  Through 
forty-five  years  this  inevitable  tension  lasts.  Only 
as  one  waits  for  the  time  to  pass  and  for  the  glacier 
to  let  go  its  hold  can  hope  be  actually  triumphant. 

The  force  of  atmosphere  in  After  Twenty  Years 
is  less  immediately  evident  than  it  is  in  the  two 
stories  just  noticed.  As  nearly  as  one  can  express 
it,  the  single  impression  seems  to  be  the  grip  of  duty. 
It  is  fidelity  to  duty  which  Jimmy  Wells  shows  when 
we  first  see  him,  it  is  official  obhgation  which  leads 
him  to  turn  over  his  friend  to  justice.  It  is,  also, 
faithfulness  to  obligation  which  brings  back  the 
criminal  Bob  to  meet  an  appointment  made  with  his 
friend  twenty  years  before.  This  single  impression 
appears  to  the  best  advantage  against  the  back- 
ground-atmosphere of  the  power  of  the  social  order. 
This  atmosphere  is  felt  by  both  characters  aUke. 
Even  Bob,  so  used  to  ignoring  duty,  who,  profes- 
sionally, has  been  butting  for  many  years  against 


ATMOSPHERE  161 

the  social  order,  recognizes  one  of  its  natural  bases 
in  fulfilling  the  promise  made  to  his  friend.  Here 
the  atmosphere  actively  promotes  the  growth  of 
single  impression.  The  dominant  tone  of  security, 
felt,  too,  at  the  beginning,  finds  echo  throughout 
the  story  in  this  power  of  the  social  order. 

One  of  the  most  frequent  means  of  producing 
atmosphere  is  description.  It  may,  however,  be 
easily  abused.  In  the  Short-story,  description  is 
simply  a  means,  not  an  end  in  itself.  If  prolonged 
beyond  what  is  needful,  it  may  defeat  its  own 
purpose  and  dissipate  the  atmosphere.  It  may, 
too,  interfere  with  narrative  progress.  Yet  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  description  has  large  suggestive 
power  for  atmosphere.  One's  feelings  are  altogether 
different  in  a  stretch  of  virgin  forest  from  what  they 
are  on  a  city  street.  They  are  likely  to  be  entirely 
different  on  a  bracing  day  in  January  from  what 
they  are  on  the  first  wilting  day  of  summer.  A 
change  in  scenic  background  may  quite  alter  one's 
impression  of  the  course  of  events.  Description, 
however,  even  as  characterization,  should  be  kept 
within  bounds  of  definite  purpose.  Details  may 
be  jumbled  together.  A  rubbish  heap,  rather  than 
a  picture,  results.  One  should  pick  out  that  which 
is  uniquely  significant,  that  which  will  make  the 
reader  feel  about  the  thing  described  exactly  what 
the  WTiter  felt.  The  writer  must  have  a  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things  that  will  enable  him  to  lay 
his  finger  on  just  that  which  will  yield  the  full  sug- 
gestion.    The  swift  stroke  which  calls  up  a  host  of 


162  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

suggestions  is,  in  the  Short-story,  vastly  more  effect- 
ive than  a  long,  much-detailed  description.  An 
effective  narrative  description  should  be  presented 
not  to  the  intellect,  but  to  the  imagination.  To 
describe,  therefore,  one  needs  to  be  sensitive  to  the 
appeal  of  things  and  to  their  common  associations. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  descriptions  more 
perfectly  adapted  to  the  needs  of  a  story  than  are 
those  in  They.  It  has  already  been  noted  that  an 
atmosphere  of  unreality  and  mystery  is  needed  in 
this  story  for  the  full  expression  of  the  single 
effect.  The  description  at  the  beginning  —  much 
the  longest  in  the  story  —  impresses  one  with  its 
beauty  and  its  compact  suggestiveness.  The  first 
paragraph  is  especially  full  of  association: 

"One  view  called  me  to  another  —  one  hill-top 
to  its  fellow  —  half  across  the  county;  and  since 
I  could  answer  at  no  more  trouble  than  the  snapping 
forward  of  a  lever,  I  let  the  county  flow  under  my 
wheels.  The  orchid-studded  flats  of  the  East  gave 
way  to  the  thyme,  ilex,  and  grey  grass  of  the  Downs; 
these,  again,  to  the  rich  cornland  and  fig  trees  of 
the  lower  coast,  where  you  carry  the  beat  of  the  tide 
on  your  left  hand  for  fifteen  level  miles:  and  when 
at  last,  I  turned  inland,  through  a  huddle  of  rounded 
hills  and  woods,  I  had  run  myself  clean  out  of  my 
known  marks.  Beyond  that  precise  hamlet  which 
stands  Godmother  to  the  capital  of  the  United 
States,  I  found  hidden  villages  where  bees,  the 
only  things   awake,   boomed  in  eighty-foot  lindens 


ATMOSPHERE  163 

that  overhung  grey  Norman  churches,  miraculous 
brooks  diving  under  stone  bridges  built  for  heavier 
traffic  than  would  ever  vex  them  again;  tithe-barns 
larger  than  their  churches,  and  an  old  smithy  that 
cried  out  aloud  how  it  had  once  been  a  hall  of  the 
Knights  of  the  Temple.  Gipsies  I  found  on  a 
common  where  the  gorse,  bracken,  and  heath  fought 
it  out  together  up  a  mile  of  Roman  road;  and  a 
little  further  on  I  disturbed  a  red  fox  rolling  dog- 
fashion  in  the  naked  sunlight." 

It  is  worth  while  to  examine  this  description 
somewhat  more  closely.  Its  elements  crowd  one 
upon  another.  Hints,  yet  only  hints,  are  thrown 
out  to  the  imagination.  One  catches  but  passing 
glimpses  of  the  country  as  the  automobile  speeds 
along.  There  is  no  stopping  here  to  analyze  botani- 
cal specimens.  The  manifest  hurry  adds  to  the 
general  lack  of  certainty.  Yet  every  sentence  is 
full  of  associations.  Orchids  and  fig  trees,  one  asso- 
ciates with  the  luxuriance  of  a  warm  climate.  They 
are  suggestive  here  because  they  are  outside  the 
pale  of  everyday  experience.  Ilexes  are  bound 
up  with  the  lore  of  antiquity.  The  sea  is  always 
full  of  silent  mystery  to  the  beholder.  "Hidden 
villages  where  bees,  the  only  things  awake,  boomed 
in  eighty-foot  lindens  over  grey  Norman  churches," 
suggest  almost  a  land  of  enchantment,  where  silence 
and  memory  of  the  past  may  reign  supreme.  Even 
the  smithy  turns  one's  thoughts  backward.  There 
appear    gipsies,    always    mysterious,    for    they    are 


164  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

like  the  wind  of  which  it  is  said  that  "no  man 
knoweth  whence  it  comelh  or  whither  it  goeth." 
When,  after  following  a  mile  of  Roman  road,  one 
disturbs  a  red  fox  rolling  in  the  naked  sunlight, 
one  feels  fully  away  from  the  har(;l  and  fast  lines 
of  routine  and  free  to  let  the  imagination  roam  at 
will.  The  wooded  hills  may  close  about  us,  and  the 
hazel  stuff  meet  over  our  heads  and  we  are  content, 
not  knowing  what  strange  experiences  may  be  just 
beyond.  The  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  unreality 
is  here  produced  by  reference  to  things  beyond 
one's  ordinary  experience,  to  things  belonging  to 
a  time  long  past,  and  to  the  beauty  and  serenity  of 
nature  through  which  one  is  rapidly  whirled. 

There  are  other  descriptions  in  They,  shorter  but 
just  as  effective.  Throughout  the  story  there  is 
much  indirectness  and  indistinctness.  The  woods 
are  full  of  summer  noises,  the  children's  voices  rise 
in  murmurs,  Ihe  sunlight  is  chequered.  One  sees 
"the  wayside  grasses  rising  and  bowing  in  sallow 
waves,"  "the  long  shade  possessing  the  insolent 
horsemen  one  by  one,"  and  the  mirror  in  the  dusky 
hall  "distorting  afresh  the  distorted  shadows." 
The  description  which  marks  the  third  visit  of 
"the  man  from  the  other  side  of  the  county" 
shows  "summer  England"  turned  to  "blank  grey." 
Yet,  while  it  seems  to  hold  more  life,  more  stir  of 
people,  and  perhaps  less  of  unreality  and  mystery, 
than  does  the  description  at  the  beginning,  it 
holds,  also,  more  gloom.  It  has  a  cruel  charm  — 
an  atmospheric  background  well  fitted  for  a  climax 


ATMOSPHERE  165 

where,  with  understanding,  comes,  also,  anguish 
of  spirit.  Thcij  is  a  story  of  atmosphere,  and  every 
description  gives  added  strength. 

One  might,  too,  notice  the  descriptions  of  The 
Masque  of  the  Red  Dealh  in  their  effect  on  atmosphere. 
The  greater  part  of  the  story  is  given  over  to  a 
description  of  the  prince's  apartments  and  to  the 
revelings  of  the  masquers.  There  is  httle  of  action, 
little  of  character,  but  much  of  atmosphere.  Every 
detail  contributes  something  of  the  weird  and  the 
grotesque  to  the  scene.  There  is  luxuriance  so 
hypernatural  that  it  affects  one  with  intense  gloom 
and  an  almost  ominous  disgust.  The  colors  as  they 
follow  one  another,  vivid  blue,  purple,  green,  orange, 
white,  violet,  black,  seem  those  of  morbidity  rather 
than  of  light  and  life  and  health.  No  natural  light 
reaches  these  rooms,  for  the  windows  are  all  of 
stained  glass  corresponding  in  colors  to  those  of  the 
rooms.  In  the  black  room  alone,  the  panes  are 
different  —  and  here  they  are  of  red.  The  actual 
atmosphere  of  the  rooms  is  thus  made  to  seem  un- 
natural. Even  the  dancers  in  their  fantastic  costume 
seem  to  take  hue  from  their  surroundings.  More- 
over, what  light  there  is  in  these  rooms  must  waver 
and  flicker,  answering  to  the  rising  and  falling  of 
flames  in  the  braziers  without.  The  atmosphere  is 
uncanny.  Almost  anything  unnatural  and  terrify- 
ing might  happen  amid  such  surroundings. 

Experiential  association  invests  most  facts  of 
common  life  with  the  power  of  affecting  atmosphere. 
Singly  they  may  do  it;    a  combination,  as  has  just 


166  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

been  shown,  may  make  a  description  electric  with 
atmospheric  force.  These  objects,  facts,  or  events 
may  appear  simply  as  momentary  effects,  or  as 
incident.  The  rapid  strokes  of  a  fire  alarm  make 
one  apprehensive.  The  tolling  of  a  bell  depresses, 
the  janghng  of  a  gong  stimulates,  the  ringing  of 
chimes  soothes.  These  are  but  single  effects.  They 
might,  however,  be  expanded  into  complete  emo- 
tional incidents.  The  striking  of  the  ebony  clock 
in  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death  is  an  incident  de- 
scribed in  detail.  The  muffled  peal  which  comes  only 
to  one  within  the  black  room  is  a  mere  effect.  All 
of  a  person's  moods,  whether  of  seriousness  or  ex- 
hilaration, may  be  expressed  by  incident.  Once 
expressed,  they  contribute  to  atmosphere,  —  for 
moods  pass  easily  from  one  person  to  another.  A 
whole  group  may  be  set  to  laughing  simply  by 
watching  another  person  laugh.  All  emotional 
incidents  contribute,  however  indirectly,  to  at- 
mosphere. They  should  be  designed  with  care, 
therefore,  that  they  may  strengthen  the  prevailing 
atmosphere.  By  telhng  stories  of  Homeric  heroes 
to  while  away  the  time,  the  outcasts  of  Poker  Flat 
encourage  one  another  to  a  like  heroism  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  impending  disaster. 

For  examples  of  the  creation  of  atmosphere  by 
emotional  incidents  and  mood  effects,  one  cannot 
do  better  than  to  turn  again  to  They.  The  shyness 
of  the  children  is  insisted  upon  until  they,  too,  seem 
of  a  part  with  the  atmosphere.  One  catches  the 
"glint  of  a  blue  blouse"  among  the  horsemen  and 


ATMOSPHERE  167 

again  in  the  shrubbery.  One  hears  the  "tread  of 
small  cautious  feet  stealing  across  the  dead  leaves," 
and  then  their  rapid  retreat.  A  child  clinging  to 
the  skirt  of  Miss  Florence  suddenly  runs  "into  the 
leafage  like  a  rabbit."  One  sees  them  "frolicking 
like  shadows  among  the  swaying  shadows,"  and  at 
the  end  of  a  passage  one  glimpses  "the  silhouette 
of  a  child's  frock  against  some  darkening  window." 
One  sees  them  clearly  only  when  they  are  out  of  reach, 
—  looking  down  from  some  window  high  above.  All 
the  while,  they  seem  unreal  and  mysterious.  Yet 
not  until  one  has  neared  the  end  of  the  story  does 
one  guess  that  they  are  more  than  merely  very  shy. 
These  are  all  but  effects.     Listen  to  this  incident: 

"The  children  had  gathered  themselves  in  a 
roundel  behind  a  bramble  bush.  One  sleek  head  bent 
over  something  smaller,  and  the  set  of  the  shoulders 
told  me  that  fingers  were  on  hps.  They,  too,  pos- 
sessed some  wonderful  child's  secret.  I  alone  was 
astray  there  in  the  broad  summer  light." 

It  is  a  minor  incident,  but  it  is  all  atmosphere. 
In  this  story,  even  the  incidents  of  movement  have 
much  emotional  value. 

In  making  a  natural,  thoroughly  true  atmosphere, 
one  will  often  find  use  for  contrast.  Every  atmos- 
phere has  its  blending  tones,  its  almost  infinite  shades 
of  light  and  darkness,  its  ever-changing  odors.  At  one 
moment  it  may  seem  fairly  to  sparkle,  and  the  next 
it  may  relapse  to  dull  though  clear  transparency. 
One  breath  may  fairly  suffocate  with  its  load  of  dust. 


168  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

while  the  next  may  carry  the  fragrance  of  Hghtning- 
spHntered  pine.  The  atmosphere  of  stories,  too,  is 
often  made  more  effective  by  the  presence  of  varying 
tones.  Every  strain  must  have  its  times  of  mo- 
mentary relaxation.  Without  hope,  despair  cannot 
be  fully  appreciated.  Gloom  must  be  enlivened  by 
gaiety.  Shade  but  makes  the  brightness  brighter.^ 
Suspense  is  heightened  by  relief.  After  the  brief 
period  of  sunshine,  the  storm  clouds  seem  to  gather 
more  closely  around  the  outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  and 
the  snow  falls  more  thickly.  The  atmosphere  of 
impending  disaster,  temporarily  lightened,  settles 
again  and  envelops  them.  In  the  midst  of  music  and 
attempted  revelry,  the  awfulness  of  the  Red  Death 
strikes  more  deeply  than  it  otherwise  could. 

The  value  of  contrast  for  atmosphere  is  well  il- 
lustrated in  The  Cask  of  Amontillado.  The  revenge 
occurs  during  the  carnival  season.  Montresor  finds 
Fortunato  dressed  in  motley  and  wearing  the  appro- 
priate conical  cap  and  bells.     In  this  man  who  has 

'  "  If  the  artist  introduces  every  tone  into  the  story  he  there- 
by gets  hold  of  every  tone  in  the  spectator's  emotional  nature; 
the  world  of  the  play  is  presented  from  every  point  of  view 
as  it  works  upon  the  various  passions,  and  the  difference  this 
makes  is  the  difference  between  simply  looking  down  upon  a 
surface  and  viewing  a  solid  from  all  round:  the  mixture  of 
tones,  so  to  speak,  makes  passion  of  three  dimensions.  More- 
over, it  brings  the  world  of  fiction  nearer  to  the  world  of 
nature,  which  has  never  yet  evolved  an  experience  in  which 
brightness  was  dissevered  from  gloom;  half  the  pleasure  of  the 
world  is  wrung  out  of  other's  pain;  the  two  jostle  in  the  street, 
house  together  under  every  roof,  share  every  stage  of  life,  and 
refuse  to  be  sundered  even  in  the  mysteries  of  death."  R.  G. 
Moulton,  Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Artist,  pp.  292-3. 


ATMOSPHERE  169 

entered  into  the  reckless  jollity  of  the  carnival  season, 
ready  to  give  or  to  receive  a  joke  with  equal  good 
grace,  Montresor  finds  an  easy  victim.  Until  the 
last,  Fortunato  remains  unsuspecting  in  the  presence 
of  that  which  at  another  time  might  have  aroused 
his  suspicion  and  occasioned  his  withdrawal  from 
the  vaults.  In  the  carnival  season,  however,  he  is 
prepared  to  follow  mirth  to  the  end,  expecting  even 
a  semblance  of  seriousness  to  turn  out  a  merry  jest. 
Thus  he  is  led  unaware  into  the  spider's  trap.  Cruel, 
premeditated  revenge  and  unsuspecting  good  fellow- 
ship stand  facing  each  other,  and  the  one  seems  more 
fiendish  because  it  is  in  the  presence  of  the  other. 
Turning  now  to  the  last  paragraph,  one  finds  these 
words : 

"No  answer.  I  thrust  a  torch  through  the  remain- 
ing aperture  and  let  it  fall  within.  There  came 
forth  in  return  only  a  jingling  of  the  bells." 

The  reader's  interest  has  been  bent  on  the  details 
of  the  revenge.  Just  as  it  is  completed,  one  catches 
once  more  a  view  of  the  carnival  jollity.  Then 
follows  the  silence  of  death.  The  atmosphere  of 
utter  vindictiveness  stands  out  in  its  intensity. 

One  finds  foreshadowing,  too,  a  device  sometimes 
of  use  for  atmosphere.  By  its  suggestion  it  may 
serve  to  make  an  atmosphere  more  appreciable;  it 
may  be  actually  contributory.  It  requires,  how- 
ever, no  little  skill,  for  the  writer  must  so  arrange  his 
details  that  they  will  constitute  a  real  though  veiled 
intimation  of  the  outcome.     It  may  influence  one's 


170  THE   AlODERN    SHORT-STORY 

mood  and  prepare  one  for  a  future  event  without 
actually  revealing  its  intent.  It  may  appear  either 
in  description  or  in  incident.  In  The  Outcasts  of 
Poker  Flat,  the  storm  is  foreshadowed  by  description. 
The  air  grows  strangely  chill,  the  wind  moans,  the  sky 
is  ominously  clouded.  Near  the  beginning  of  the 
story,  the  Duchess  in  her  petulance  declared  "that 
she  would  die  in  the  road."  As  one  reads,  one 
passes  this  remark  over  lightly.  In  the  light  of 
later  developments,  however,  it  seems  a  bit  of  care- 
fully designed  foreshadowing.  The  strongest  fore- 
shadowing in  the  story,  however,  appears  when  the 
outcasts  join  with  Piney  and  The  Innocent  in  singing 
the  two-line  refrain: 

"I'm  proud  to  live  in  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
And  I'm  bound  to  die  in  His  army." 

This  incident  forms  almost  an  unwitting  recognition 
of  an  atmosphere  of  impending  disaster.  As  if  to 
clinch  this  impression,  the  next  sentence  adds: 

"The  pines  rocked,  the  storm  eddied  and  whirled 
above  the  miserable  group,  and  the  flames  of  their 
altar  leaped  heavenward  as  if  in  token  of  the  vow." 

One  frequently  finds  stories  in  which  the  atmos- 
phere is  influenced,  in  part,  at  least,  by  local  color, 
—  which  is  the  setting  forth  of  the  distinctive 
peculiarities  of  a  definite  locality  or  period.  There 
are  many  possible  settings  for  a  story  which  would 
be  as  fitting  for  one  section  of  a  country  as  for  an- 
other. They  are  not  distinctive.  Rainy  days  or 
sunny  skies  are  much  alike  wherever  they  are  found. 


ATMOSPHERE  171 

A  distant  range  of  hills  does  not  settle  the  locality  of 
a  landscape.  Only  when  setting  is  uniquely  peculiar 
to  one  locality  can  one  speak  correctly  of  local  color. 
Such  setting  can  be  expressed  either  in  incident  or 
in  description.  It  is  natural,  as  a  result,  that  some 
stories  should  be  written  with  the  sole  purpose  of 
exhibiting  local  color,  while  others  should  use  it 
simply  as  a  fitting  and  picturesque  background. 
In  either  case,  it  may  have  a  contributory  influence 
on  atmosphere,  to  which  it  is  akin  much  as  the 
fragrance  of  apple  blossoms  is  akin  to  the  air  we 
breathe.  Local  color  may  so  pervade  an  atmosphere 
that  it  is  felt  as  a  distinct  flavor  and  affects  one's 
emotional  outlook.  In  The  Madonna  of  the  Future, 
Florence  is  so  displayed  in  her  character  of  mistress 
of  art  and  of  the  artistic  spirit  that  one  is  made 
fairly  to  breathe  an  atmosphere  of  idealism.  It  is 
this  atmosphere  which  makes  Mr.  Theobald's  failure 
so  possible  yet  so  pathetic.  Throughout  The  Man 
Who  Would  Be  King  the  influence  of  local  color  is 
felt  strongly,  for  it  is  the  searching  after  something 
new,  —  something  that  wiU  be  in  contrast  to  one's 
everyday  experiences,  —  that  is  at  the  basis  of  the 
adventurous  spirit.  It  is  the  contrasts  that  are 
emphasized  by  the  local  color  in  this  story.  One 
example  will  suffice.  The  description  is  of  the 
Native  States: 

"They  are  the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  full  of 
unimaginable  cruelty,  touching  the  Railway  and 
the  Telegraph  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other,  the 


172  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

days  of  Harun-al-Raschid.  When  I  left  the  train 
I  did  business  with  divers  Kings,  and  in  eight  days 
passed  through  many  changes  of  Hfe.  Sometimes  I 
wore  dress-clothes  and  consorted  with  Princes  and 
Politicals,  drinking  from  crystal  and  eating  from 
silver.  Sometimes  I  lay  out  upon  the  ground  and 
devoured  w^hat  I  could  get,  from  a  plate  made  of  a 
flapjack,  and  drank  the  running  water,  and  slept 
under  the  same  rug  as  my  servant.  It  was  all  in 
the  day's  work." 

Local  color  is  expressed  also  in  the  speech  of 
characters,  and  here  it  is  cafled  dialect.  Dialect  is 
interesting  because  of  its  novelty.  In  some  stories, 
it  is  made  the  main  point.  It  is,  however,  difficult 
to  reproduce  on  paper  accurately  and  suggestively. 
To  write  it  successfully,  one  needs  to  have  lived  long 
enough  in  a  community  to  have  acquired  the  exact 
accent  and  manner  of  speech  of  the  people.  Aside 
from  its  novelty,  dialect  is  of  little  value  in  a  Short- 
story.  It  has  little  meaning  for  atmosphere.  Words, 
to  one  who  is  unfamiliar  with  them,  possess  little 
connotation.  Their  quaintness  or  suggestiveness 
may  fail  to  arouse  the  sympathy  of  a  stranger. 
Sometimes,  naturalness  demands  that  a  character 
use  a  dialect.  Yet,  usually,  the  same  things  ex- 
pressed by  the  same  people  in  plain  Enghsh  will  sug- 
gest vastly  more  to  the  ordinary  person,  and  will  be 
of  more  real  value  for  atmosphere.  How  style  is  a 
factor  in  producing  atmosphere  will  be  considered 
in  the  next  chapter. 


IX 

STYLE 

The  style-qualities  of  the  Short-story  are  not 
essentially  different  from  those  of  any  other  branch 
of  prose  fiction.  Of  course,  there  must  be  clearness 
and. order,  but  these  should  not  be  strangers  to  any 
style.  They  spring  from  clear  and  orderly  thought. 
There  must  be  also  concreteness  and  suggestiveness 
of  style;  and  these  are  common  to  all  good  narrative. 
There  may  be  present,  too,  humor,  pathos,  anima- 
tion, directness,  nervousness,  simplicity,  picturesque- 
ness,  naturalness,  vividness,  or  any  of  the  numerous 
other  qualities  as  they  are  so  varyingly  named  by 
those  who  gather  them  into  lists.  Yet  none  of  these 
are  the  property  of  the  Short-story  exclusively  or  of 
any  other  form  of  prose.  The  brevity  and  con- 
densation of  the  Short-story,  however,  make  it  a 
good  vehicle  for  the  display  of  some  of  these  qualities 
in  more  than  their  ordinary  development.  No 
rules  can  be  laid  down  as  to  a  proper  style  for  the 
Short-story.  Every  story  is  a  law  unto  itself,  as  is 
every  poem.  An  individual  creation  of  the  imagina- 
tion, its  style  will  depend  on  the  form,  on  the  subject 
treated,  and  on  the  personality  of  the  writer.  This 
threefold  division  is  true  in  all  art.  Tennyson's 
lyrics   are  of   one   sort;   Wordsworth's,  of   another. 


174  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

Chopin's  preludes  are  utterly  difTerent  from  Bach's. 
Corot  painted  landscape  in  one  way;  Ruysdael,  in 
another.  The  best  style  for  a  given  story  is  that 
which  is  the  most  perfect  expression  of  what  the 
writer  intended  to  say  and  of  the  impression  he 
wished  to  convey.  To  attempt  to  lay  down  any 
binding  rules  for  Short-story  style  would  be  foolish 
and  hazardous.  Yet  there  are  certain  general 
principles  upon  which  even  the  variations  are  based, 
principles  derived  from  the  essential  nature  of  the 
Short-story  as  a  form  of  fme  art;  and  these  it  may  be 
well  to  consider  briefly. 

As  has  been  shown,  the  modern  Short-story  has  a 
rather  rigid  form;  and  because  of  this  form  it  lends 
itself  to  greater  relative  perfection  than  would 
otherwise  be  possible.  It  is  brief,  it  is  dramatic,  it 
makes  a  single  impression  which  is  predominantly 
emotional.  Since  it  is  brief,  it  must  be  direct; 
since  it  is  dramatic,  explanation  and  analysis  will  be 
subordinate  to  speech  and  action;  since  it  must  give 
a  single  emotional  impression,  it  must  be  simple  and 
intense.  Naturally,  such  results  are  attained  only 
when  the  workmanship  is  of  the  finest  at  every 
stage  of  the  making.  There  must  be  a  delicate  adap- 
tation of  all  possible  means  in  securing  the  requisite 
artistic  efTect.  Not  only  must  plot  and  structure  be 
skilfully  wrought,  but  style,  also,  should  add  grace 
and  poignancy.  It  is  the  finishing  which  brings  out 
the  grain,  and  gives  distinction  and  refinement  to 
rougher  work.  Yet  style  is  never  sought  for  itself 
alone,  but  only  as  it  is  of  service  in  making  the  story 


STYLE  175 

grip  the  reader's  imagination  with  the  sense  of  reahty 
as  a  hving  experience.  To  this  end,  language  may- 
be used  in  almost  infinite  variations  of  word  and 
phrase  and  sentence.  The  interest  of  plot  should 
be  such  that  one  will  eagerly  await  the  outcome, 
yet  the  mere  reading  should  be  a  joy.  Through 
fitting  language,  the  emotional  effect  may  weave 
itself  through  the  story  until  it  subtly  pervades  the 
spirit  of  the  reader.  One  finishes  a  good  Short- 
story  with  regret  as  well  as  with  satisfaction.  Its 
brevity,  yielding  more  intense  emotion  than  could 
a  longer  narrative,  makes  one's  conscious  enjoyment 
the  more  lively.  Narrative  of  any  sort  is  an  appeal 
to  the  imagination  and  will  demand  imaginative 
language,  yet  it  may  contain  much,  also,  which 
makes  a  purely  intellectual  appeal.  In  the  Short- 
story,  however,  there  is  a  closer  unity;  what  counts 
for  plot  advancement  must  serve  also  for  emotional 
intensification.  Form  and  content  both  make  their 
demands  on  style,  and  both  call  for  vividness. 

The  style,  however,  is  determined  finally  by  the 
nature  of  the  individual  story.  What  is  appropriate 
for  one  may  not  accord  with  the  spirit  of  another. 
They,  for  example,  and  The  Man  Who  Would  Be 
King  are  both  Short-stories  and  both  by  Kipling, 
yet  their  styles  are  utterly  different.  Just  how  they 
differ,  it  is  perhaps  difficult  to  say,  but  any  one  will 
recognize  the  fact.  Each  style  fits  the  story  to 
which  it  belongs,  so  perfectly  that  it  contributes  to 
the  story  itself.  It  has  already  been  noted  how  the 
descriptions  in  They  are  made  to  produce  atmosphere. 


176  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

There  is  throughout  them  a  certain  daintiness  and 
airiness.  In  The  Man  Who  Would  Be  King,  how- 
ever, one  is  aware  of  a  wholesome  enthusiasm.  Mrs. 
Knollys  is  almost  discursive.  Terseness  would  have 
been  inappropriate.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  this  story 
to  hnger  over  the  details.  The  story  is  simply  told, 
too,  for  such  a  struggle  against  the  sternness  of 
nature  would  be  offensive  if  told  grandiloquently. 
The  style  is  adapted  to  the  story.  In  the  stories  of 
0.  Henry,  we  deplore  the  carelessness  with  which 
asides  are  thrown  in,  the  apparently  needless  pro- 
fusion of  slang;  yet  we  laugh  and  sympathize,  —  not 
because  the  stories  themselves  move  us,  but  because 
they  are  told  with  the  zest  of  one  who  is  experiencing 
them.  They  seem  natural,  and  it  is  a  duty  of  style 
to  leave  an  impression  of  naturalness.  We  should 
never  enjoy  By  Courier,  for  instance,  but  for  the 
inimitable  translation  of  the  man's  message  into 
the  street-boy's  language.  Naturalness  or  propriety 
of  style  in  the  Short-story  requires  that  every  speech 
should  sound  appropriate  in  the  mouth  of  the  one 
who  makes  it;  that  every  word  and  phrase  and 
sentence  should  be  in  harmony  with  the  prevailing 
idea  of  the  story. 

The  principle  of  greatest  economy  of  means  to- 
gether with  utmost  emphasis  applies,  also,  in  style. 
In  the  excellent  Short-story  we  find  dramatic  in- 
tensity, a  pruning  away  of  all  which  does  not  in 
some  way  add  strength.  In  the  style,  the  spirit  of 
the  story  is  distilled.  Words  have  their  full  value 
and  do  not  appear  as  mere  colorless  terms.     Every 


STYLE  177 

sentence  strikes  home  wilh  ils  message  of  suggestion. 
Ideas  gain  by  being  compressed  in  their  statement. 
The  direct  style  need  not  be  beautiful,  it  needs  to 
go  straight  to  the  point  without  hesitation.  Two 
selections  from  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  will 
illustrate.     The  first  explains  itself: 

"In  point  of  fact,  Poker  Flat  was  'after  some- 
body.' It  had  lately  suffered  the  loss  of  several 
thousand  dollars,  two  valuable  horses,  and  a  promi- 
nent citizen.  It  was  experiencing  a  spasm  of  virtu- 
ous reaction,  quite  as  lawless  and  ungovernable  as 
any  of  the  acts  that  had  provoked  it.  A  secret  com- 
mittee had  determined  to  rid  the  town  of  all  improper 
persons." 

When  the  outcasts  have  been  for  a  week  snow- 
bound, we  have  this  instance: 

"And  yet  no  one  complained.  The  lovers  turned 
from  the  dreary  prospect  and  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  were  happy.  Mr.  Oakhurst 
settled  him.self  coolly  to  the  losing  game  before  him. 
The  Duchess,  more  cheerful  than  she  had  been, 
assumed  the  care  of  Piney.  Only  Mother  Shipton 
—  once  the  strongest  of  the  party  —  seemed  to  sicken 
and  fade." 

In  directness  of  narrative  style  probably  no  one 
has  surpassed  Guy  de  Maupassant.  Notice  these 
paragraphs  from  The  Necklace: 

"She  was  one  of  those  pretty  and  charming  girls, 
who,  as  if  by  a  blunder  of  destiny,  are  born  in  a 


178  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

family  of  clerks.  She  had  no  dowry,  no  expecta- 
tions, no  means  of  being  known,  understood,  loved, 
married  by  a  man  rich  and  distinguished,  and  so 
she  let  herself  be  married  to  a  petty  clerk  in  the 
Department  of  Education." 

"She  had  no  dresses,  no  jewelry,  nothing.  And 
she  loved  nothing  else;  she  felt  herself  made  for  that 
only.  She  would  so  much  have  liked  to  please,  to 
be  envied,  to  Jdc  seductive  and  sought  after." 

"She  came  to  know  the  drudgery  of  house  work, 
the  odious  cares  of  the  kitchen.  She  washed  the 
dishes,  using  her  rosy  nails  on  the  greasy  pots  and 
the  bottoms  of  the  saucepans.  She  washed  the 
dirty  linen,  the  shirts  and  the  dishcloths,  which  she 
hung  to  dry  on  a  line;  she  carried  the  garbage  down 
to  the  street  every  morning  and  carried  up  the 
water,  stopping  at  each  landing  to  rest.  And, 
dressed  like  a  woman  of  the  people,  she  went  to  the 
fruiterer's,  the  grocer's,  the  butcher's;  her  basket  on 
her  arm,  bargaining,  abusing,  defending  sou  by  sou 
her  miserable  money." 

Equally  direct  is  the  following  paragraph  taken 
from  Leonard  Merrick's  story,  Little-Flower-of-the- 
Wood: 

"'I  am  very  poor  and  ill,'  she  went  on.  'I  have 
been  away  in  the  South  for  more  than  two  years; 
they  told  mc  I  ought  to  stop  there,  but  I  had  to  see 


STYLE  179 

Paris  once  more!  Whal  does  it  matter?  I  shall 
finish  here  a  little  sooner,  that  is  all.  I  lodge  close 
by,  in  a  garret.  The  garret  is  very  dirty,  but  I  hear 
the  music  from  the  Bal  Tabarin  across  the  way. 
I  like  that  —  I  persuade  myself  I  am  living  the 
happy  life  I  used  to  have.  When  I  am  tossing 
sleepless,  I  hear  the  noise  and  laughter  of  the  crowd 
coming  out,  and  blow  kisses  to  them  in  the  dark. 
You  see,  although  one  is  forgotten,  one  cannot  for- 
get. I  pray  that  their  laughter  will  come  up  to  me 
right  at  the  end,  before  I  die!'" 

Simplicity  is  closely  akin  to  directness.  As  in 
the  paragraph  just  quoted,  they  are  found  together. 
Notice  the  character  of  the  words.  They  are  nearly 
all  those  that  a  child  might  use,  —  note  how  many 
monosyllables.  They  are  everyday  words,  —  '  gar- 
ret,' 'dirty,'  'tossing,'  'noise,'  'laughter,'  'happy,' 
'crowd,'  'blow.'  The  sentences  are  short,  for  be- 
neath these  words  there  is  intense  emotion.  Pro- 
found emotion  is  always  simple  and  seeks  simple 
expression.  The  homely  word  and  phrase  fairly 
bristle  with  associations.  They  have  power  to 
move,  for  we  feel  them  as  concrete  things.  If  there 
is  an  attempt  to  adorn,  we  feel  a  jar  at  once.  The 
rococo  in  language  is  certain  to  detract  from  the 
real  effect  and  to  produce  a  counter  impression. 
Nothing  over-ornate  —  ornate  to  impress  rather  than 
to  express  —  nothing  unintelligible,  nothing  florid, 
nothing  full  of  allusions  of  purely  intellectual  char- 
acter, nothing  insincere,  may  pass  openly  and  un- 
challenged  through    the   gates   of   the   Short-story. 


180  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

We  are  all  children  in  that  we  like  stories  at  all; 
and  the  more  simple  they  are  in  the  manner  of 
their  telling,  the  more  do  they  awaken  our  childlike 
and  elemental  sympathies.  We  sit  around  a  fire,  — 
perhaps  a  camp-fire,  —  of  an  evening  to  hear  a 
story  told.  If  it  has  not  been  prepared  for  the 
occasion,  but  flows  on  simply,  and  naturally,  and 
spontaneously,  we  Uke  it  the  better.  The  spirit 
of  the  teller  and  the  spirits  of  the  listeners  all  seem 
to  enter  in  to  cover  the  deficiencies,  and  to  fill  in 
the  pauses  with  recalled  experiences.  Such  a  story 
Mrs.  Knollys  seems.  We  for  the  time  belong  to 
the  group  of  listeners.  Surely,  it  was  not  first  told 
into  a  typewriter.  It  is  too  tender,  too  simple,  as 
if  it  were  rising  from  the  heart  of  him  who  tells  it. 
Here  is  but  one  paragraph: 

"There  were  but  two  events  in  her  life  —  that 
which  was  past  and  that  which  was  to  come.  She 
had  lived  through  his  loss;  now  she  lived  on  for 
his  recovery.  But,  as  I  have  said,  she  changed, 
as  all  things  mortal  change,  all  but  the  earth  and 
the  ice-stream  and  the  stars  above  it.  She  read 
much,  and  her  mind  grew  deep  and  broad,  none 
the  less  gentle  with  it  all;  she  was  wiser  in  the 
world;  she  knew  the  depths  of  human  hope  and 
sorrow.  You  remember  her  only  as  an  old  lady 
whom  we  loved.  Only  her  heart  did  not  change  — 
I  forgot  that;  her  heart,  and  the  memory  of  that 
last  loving  smile  upon  his  face,  as  he  bent  down  to 
look  into  her  eyes,  before  he  shpped  and  fell.     She 


STYLE  181 

lived  on,  and  waited  for  his  body,  as  possibly  his 
other  self  —  who  knows?  —  waited  for  her.  As  she 
grew  older  she  grew  taller;  her  eyes  were  quieter, 
her  hair  a  little  straighter,  darker  than  of  yore; 
her  face  changed,  only  the  expression  remained 
the  same.     Mary  Knollys!" 

To  be  simple,  however,  is  not  to  be  common- 
place. Whatever  helps  toward  the  intimate  reali- 
zation of  a  scene,  of  an  incident,  of  an  emotion,  be 
it  attained  even  by  a  conscious  striving  after  the 
artistic  in  expression,  need  not  offend  simplicity. 
Language  which  stimulates  imaginative  activity 
in  a  way  that  enforces  the  effect  is,  in  the  Short- 
story,  legitimate.  By  an  artful  choice  and  arrange- 
ment of  words  imbued  with  feeling,  language  may 
give  rise  to  an  atmosphere,  as  boiling  water  throws 
up  steam.  In  poetry,  the  subtle  sympathy  of  con- 
tent and  music  as  expressed  by  imitative  word,  by 
metres,  rhythms,  and  rhymes,  becomes  a  factor  in 
one's  appreciation  and  enjoyment.  In  the  Short- 
story,  too,  language  may  affect  atmosphere  by 
touching  one's  creative  memory.  It  cannot  be 
fashioned  in  the  manifold  patterns  of  poetry,  but 
it  can  bring  to  the  story  all  the  other  graces  of  word 
choice  and  order. 

In  making  a  vivid  impression,  picturesqueness  of 
style  is  often  of  service.  Words  which  compel  one 
to  visualize  promote  one's  lively  experience  of  the 
things  themselves.  They  put  one  in  a  certain  at- 
titude of  receptivity;  they  strike  a  sensitive  chord 


182  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

in  the  reader.  In  short,  they  create  an  atmos- 
phere, which,  by  according  with  the  general  at- 
mosphere of  the  story,  gives  it  added  forcefulness. 
Three  times  in  Mrs.  Knollys  we  are  sent  out  by 
night  to  look  at  the  glacier,  the  mountain,  and  the 
changing  sky  with  its  moon  and  stars: 

"The  glacier  has  a  light  of  its  own,  and  gleams 
to  stars  above,  and  the  great  Glockner  mountain 
flings  his  shadow  of  the  planets  in  its  face." 

The  glacier  seems  changeless,  the  mountain  above  it 
remains  unmoved,  the  stars  are  fixed  in  their  places 
and  move  only  in  accordance  with  an  immutable 
law.  They  shine  upon  the  glacier,  but  they  are  as 
powerless  to  hurry  its  motion,  as  it  is  to  influence 
theirs.  While  one  watches  the  snowy  surface  of 
the  glacier  gleam  upward  and  the  planets  reflected 
upon  it,  one  is  possessed  with  a  nameless  awe. 
Unwittingly,  we  are  already  cloaked  deep  in  an 
atmosphere  of  tension. 

In  some  stories,  as  in  They,  this  picturesqueness 
forms  a  large  factor  in  atmosphere.  One  is  forced 
to  look,  and  when  one  has  looked,  one  has  fallen 
under  the  spell  of  its  witchery.  The  picturesque- 
ness of  this  passage  is  particularly  notable: 

"The  red  light  poured  itself  along  the  age-polished 
dusky  panels  till  the  Tudor  roses  and  lions  took 
on  colour  and  motion.  An  old  eagle-topped  convex 
mirror  gathered  the  picture  into  its  mysterious 
heart,  distorting  afresh  the  distorted  shadows,  and 
curving  the  gallery  lines  into  the  curves  of  a  ship. 


STYLE  183 

The  day  was  shutting  down  in  half  a  gale  as  the 
fog  turned  to  stringy  scud;  through  the  uncurtained 
mulhons  of  the  broad  window  I  could  see  the  valiant 
horsemen  on  the  lawn  curvet  and  caracole  against 
the  wind  that  pelted  them  with  dead  leaves." 

In  many  stories  such  a  picture  as  this  would  seem 
mere  verbiage;  in  They  it  is  a  part  of  the  atmos- 
phere. It  is  the  restless  motion  which  catches  and 
rivets  attention. 

Another  use  is  made  of  motion  in  Markheim. 
The  tremulousness  which  the  guilty  murderer  sees 
in  everything  about  him  is  the  first  evidence  of  his 
nervousness,  the  first  token  of  any  waverings  of 
conscience: 

"The  candle  stood  on  the  counter,  its  flame 
solemnly  wagging  in  a  draught;  and  by  that  incon- 
siderable movement,  the  whole  room  was  filled 
with  noiseless  bustle  and  kept  heaving  like  a  sea: 
the  tall  shadows  nodding,  the  gross  blots  of  dark- 
ness swelling  and  dwindling  as  with  respiration,  the 
faces  of  the  portraits  and  the  china  gods  changing 
and  wavering  like  images  in  water.  The  inner  door 
stood  ajar,  and  peered  into  that  leaguer  of  shadows 
with  a  long  slit  of  daylight  like  a  pointing  finger." 

One  would  have  missed  the  suggestion  in  large 
measure,  if  not  entirely,  if  Stevenson  had  written 
instead: 

The  lighted  candle  stood  on  the  counter,  and  by 
the  inconsiderable  movement  of  its  flame  the  whole 


184  THE  MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

room  was  filled  with  noiseless  bustle,  with  tall  shad- 
ows and  gross  blots  of  darkness,  with  the  blurred 
faces  of  portraits  and  china  gods. 

This  picture  would  not  have  been  compelling,  it 
would  not  have  served  the  author's  purpose.  It  is 
the  movement,  the  'wagging,'  the  'heaving,'  the 
'swelling  and  dwindling,'  the  'changing  and  waver- 
ing' which  make  the  picture  count  for  atmosphere. 
Here,  greatest  economy  of  means  has  given  way  to 
utmost  emphasis  with  a  gain  to  atmosphere  that 
is  past  telling. 

One  notices  in  this  paragraph  that  figurative 
language  is  used  to  make  the  picture  definite.  We 
are  told  exactly  with  what  to  make  comparison 
instead  of  being  allowed  vaguely  to  sense  these 
comparisons  for  ourselves.  Because  of  its  value 
for  conciseness,  a  figurative  style  is  often  found  even 
in  the  Short-story.  We  are  brought  to  see  two 
things  and  wherein  alone  they  are  alike.  One's 
experience  of  the  thing  described  is  sharpened  by 
being  brought  into  exact  focus.  Each  object,  too, 
has  a  suggestion  of  its  own,  and  these  things  taken 
together  imply  a  richness  which  neither  has  in  itself. 
One  might  wish  to  make  it  plain  that  a  certain  man 
was  angry.  We  should  perhaps  speak  of  the  con- 
traction of  his  brows,  the  rapidity  of  his  expres- 
sion, of  his  tone  of  voice;  we  should  quote  his  words. 
All  this  description,  unless  of  course  it  was  the 
main  point  of  the  story,  would  be  less  definite,  less 
forceful    than    the    more    simple,    more    vehement 


STYLE  185 

expression,  He  stormed.^  Naturally,  in  the  Short- 
story,  where  one  is  seeking  the  greatest  possible 
impression  in  the  fewest  possible  words,  such 
figurative  language  is  valuable.  Markheim  is  full 
of  such  language: 

"Meanwhile,  and  behind  all  this  activity,  brute 
terrors,  like  the  scurrying  of  rats  in  a  deserted  attic, 
filled  the  more  remote  chambers  of  his  brain  with 
riot,  the  hand  of  the  constable  would  fall  heavy  on 
his  shoulder,  and  his  nerves  would  jerk  like  a  hooked 
fish,  or  he  beheld  in  galloping  defile,  the  dock,  the 
prison,  the  gallows,  and  the  black  coffin." 

"Terror  of  the  people  in  the  street  sat  down  before 
his  mind  like  a  besieging  army." 

"Like  some  dripping  cavern,  the  chambers  of 
the  house  were  haunted  by  an  incessant  echoing." 

"The  solid  walls  might  become  transparent  and 
reveal  his  doings  like  those  of  bees  in  a  glass  hive; 
the  stout  planks  might  yield  under  his  foot  like 
quicksand  and  detain  him  in  their  clutch." 

The  dealer  "was  sunk  beneath  seas  of  silence." 
Markheim  himself  "was  smitten  into  ice."  He 
would  "plunge  into  a  bath  of  London  multitudes"; 
he  would  be  "buried  among  bedclothes." 

Markheim  is  unusually  tense;  it  treats  of  a  critical 
moment,  of  a  life  turning-point.     The  murderer  is 

^  When  verbs  can  thus  be  made  to  do  duty,  there  is  an  in- 
crease in  the  forccfulness  of  expression,  for  verbs  actively  indi- 
cate the  desired  comparison  without  delaying  movement. 


186  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

in  a  state  of  high  nervous  excitement.  Temporarily, 
he  has  lost  mastery  of  himself.  He  is  panic-striken, 
intoxicated  with  horror  at  his  own  deed.  Thoughts 
and  feelings  flee  through  his  mind  in  wild  disarray; 
all  uncontrolled,  former  experiences  flood  past  him. 
This  condition  is  expressed  actively  by  language 
in  a  luxuriance  of  imagery.  While  simple  emotion, 
however  profound,  results  in  style  simplicity,  a 
conflict  of  emotions,  resulting  in  excitement,  pro- 
vokes figurative  expression.  In  Mrs.  Knollys,  where 
the  tension  is  low  and  the  emotion  simple  yet  pro- 
found, figurative  language  would  have  been  highly 
inappropriate.  If  the  language  is  not  the  trenchant 
expression  of  that  which  the  story  demands  shall 
be  the  experience  of  the  reader,  it  is  a  mere  daub. 
Figurative  language  in  the  well-wrought  Short- 
story  never  serves  as  mere  ornament.  It  is  con- 
fined to  those  comparisons  which  are  subtly  but 
emotionally  illuminative. 

As  has  been  intimated  in  a  preceding  chapter, 
sounds,  also,  are  conducive  to  atmosphere.  These, 
too,  may  be  represented  in  language  with  more  or 
less  distinctness.  Words  and  sentences  may  have 
tone-color:  they  may  heighten  emotional  appre- 
ciation by  a  careful  adaptation  of  sound-values. 
We  are  all  aware  of  the  significance  of  the  purely 
imitative  words:  chatter,  crash,  thunder,  boom, 
tinkle,  gurgle,  whisper,  creak,  roar,  bang,  patter,  purr, 
snarl,  hiss,  and  countless  others.  We  all  take 
pleasure  in  using  those  other  words  which  are  not 
directly  suggestive  of  sound,  yet  through  their  own 


STYLE  187 

sound  manifest  the  meaning.  We  feel  such  words 
as  jerk,  swoop,  wag,  whirl,  swell,  bubble,  wiggle,  skip, 
pump.  These  make  for  vividness  anywhere.  Yet 
sentences  as  well  as  words  may  simulate  sound 
and  affect  one's  mood.  Markhcim  again  offers 
illustration: 

"The  thought  was  yet  in  his  mind,  when  first 
one  and  then  another,  with  every  variety  of  pace  and 
voice,  —  one  deep  as  the  bell  from  a  cathedral  turret, 
another  ringing  on  its  treble  notes  the  prelude  of 
a  waltz,  —  the  clocks  began  to  strike  the  hour  of 
three  in  the  afternoon." 

Or  again: 

"And  as  he  began  with  great  effort  to  mount 
the  stairs,  feet  fled  quietly  before  him  and  followed 
stealthily   behind." 

Poe,  too,  was  ever  watchful  of  the  movement  of 
his  sentences  and  the  successions  of  vowels  and 
consonants,  as  the  following  passage  from  The 
Masque   of  the   Red  Death   well  illustrates: 

"And  these  —  the  dreams  —  writhed  in  and 
about,  taking  hue  from  the  rooms,  and  causing  the 
wild  music  of  the  orchestra  to  seem  as  the  echo  of 
their  steps.  And,  anon,  there  strikes  the  ebony 
clock  which  stands  in  the  hall  of  the  velvet.  And 
then,  for  a  moment,  all  is  still,  and  all  is  silent  save 
the  voice  of  the  clock.  The  dreams  are  stiff-frozen 
as  they  stand.  But  the  echoes  of  the  chime  die 
away  —  they  have  endured  but  an  instant  —  and 


188  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

a  light,  half-subdued  laughter  floats  after  them  as 
they  depart.  And  now  again  the  music  swells,  and 
the  dreams  live  and  writhe  to  and  fro  more  merrily 
than  ever,  taking  hue  from  the  many-tinted  windows 
through  which  stream  the  rays  from  the  tripods." 

The  effect  is  not  far  to  be  sought.  It  is  in  the  per- 
fect adaptation  of  sound  to  sense.  This  is  one  of 
the  means  which  style  possesses  of  affecting  atmos- 
phere. Yet  language  is  a  delicate  instrument  and 
atmosphere,  a  dainty  drapery;  and  both,  the  masters 
of  the  Short-story  have  handled  with  consummate 
care. 

He  who  attempts  this  task  must  himself  be  exceed- 
ingly sensitive  to  emotional  effects.  He  must  be 
able  to  estimate  words  and  phrases  for  what  they 
are,  to  know  what  expressions  have  lost  their  original 
verve,  and  which  are  still  aglow,  —  for  some  have 
grown  cold  in  being  passed  from  one  to  another, 
and  some  are  just  coming  into  being.  He  must 
have,  throughout,  that  harmonious  nicety  of  touch 
which  comes  only  from  the  response  of  his  own 
nature  to  his  subject. 


X 

THE  PERSONALITY  OF   THE   WRITER 

Thus  far  we  have  treated  the  Short-story  as  a 
form,  as  a  technique.  Yet  one  should  never  lose 
sight  of  the  fact  that  technique  alone  cannot  make 
an  admirable  story.  Faultless  technique  is  neces- 
sary in  the  Short-story  as  in  the  sonnet,  but  it  is 
not  the  final  test  of  worth.  We  praise  a  musician's 
technique,  yet  we  rightly  enjoy  the  performance 
only  when  it  shows  warmth  of  feeling.  The  Short- 
story  form  has  become  common;  it  greets  us  on 
every  side.  Story-writers  who  have  mistaken  tech- 
nical skill  for  true  art  have  sprung  up  like  weeds  in 
a  meadow.  The  result  is  that  people  are  well-nigh 
sated  with  inferior  work.  If  in  the  last  half  dozen 
years  the  Short-story  has  seemed  to  degenerate, 
if  it  has  come  to  be  regarded  as  more  or  less  of  a 
dissipation  by  people  who  enjoy  strenuous  thinking, 
it  is  small  wonder.  People  who  have  not  thought 
keenly  and  felt  sincerely  can  imitate  a  form;  they 
cannot  make  literature.  If  as  much  prominence 
were  given  to  cheap,  imitation  poetry  whose  only 
virtue  is  a  close  adherence  to  a  strict  metre,  a  defi- 
nite rhyme-scheme,  and  a  well-regulated  rhythm,  as 
there  is  given  to  the  same  sort  of  Short-story,  we 
should  gain  a  highly  inadequate  and  absurd  idea 


190  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

of  the  real  value  and  beauty  of  poetry.  There  is 
a  Short-story  which  is  more  than  form;  one  which 
we  care  to  remember  as  we  do  a  good  poem.  We 
read  it  again  and  again.  It,  too,  has  a  rigid  form, 
but  it  has  what  technique  can  never  give,  a  personal 
element.  It  is  written  in  emotional  fervor  by  those 
who  have  tasted  life  in  some  of  its  sweetness  and 
bitterness,  and  who  are  ready  to  speak  their  vision 
out  of  a  full  heart. 

All  writing,  except  the  purely  scientific,  is  an 
expression  of  the  personality  of  him  who  writes  it. 
Facts  are  the  same  in  their  essence  to  every  one. 
The  plain  statement  of  fact  is  like  absolute  zero. 
It  is  entirely  devoid  of  warmth;  it  has  no  fringe 
of  feeling.  So  soon,  however,  as  it  ceases  to  stand 
by  itself  in  space  and  begins  to  come  into  relation 
to  people,  it  becomes  interesting.  It  impresses  us 
in  some  way.  We  feel  certain  things  about  it.  It 
is  then  that  our  individuality  enters.  No  two  of 
us  are  alike,  and  no  two  of  us  will  have  exactly  the 
same  feelings  about  a  given  fact.  Realizing  this 
divergence  of  feeling,  we  are  anxious  to  compare 
and  share  our  experiences.  In  the  narrow  world 
about  us,  in  the  circle  of  our  friends,  this  is  easily 
accomplished.  We  smell  a  bunch  of  lilacs,  then 
hand  it  to  our  friend.  We  watch  a  beautiful  sun- 
set, and  we  call  others  to  see  it,  that  they  may 
share  our  joy.  We  stand  on  a  hill-top  in  the  fall 
of  the  year,  and  we  point  out  one  object  after  an- 
other: the  gum-trees  turned  dark  red,  the  sun  shining 
on  the  bare  poplars,  the  mingled  yellow  and  green  and 


THE   PERSONALITY   OF   THE   WRITER  191 

russet  of  the  maples.  All  these  objects  we  name 
because  we  are  unwilling  that  another  should  miss 
their  beauty.  Even  then,  very  oflen,  some  one  is 
unsatisfied,  and  in  the  attempt  to  make  reahzation 
more  vivid,  utters  some  platitude.  He  says  that 
the  hill  looks  like  a  tapestry  or  a  veiled  Persian  silk. 
He  is  trying  to  express  hihiself.  Only  in  an  exceed- 
ingly limited  way  can  we  thus  bring  anyone  into 
actual  contact  with  that  which  we  feel  as  beautiful 
or  interesting.  That  which  stirs  our  feeling  and 
prompts  our  instinct  for  self-expression  may  be 
largely  or  wholly  beyond  the  sphere  of  the  senses. 
It  may  be  an  experience,  spiritual  in  its  nature;  a 
touch  of  pity  for  misfortune;  a  joy  in  the  well-won 
victory  of  a  noble  aspiration;  a  bitter  indignation 
for  some  deed  of  shame;  a  thrill  at  some  heroic  act. 
We  feel  as  before  the  same  impulse  to  express  our- 
selves. Voice  and  gesture  do  not  now  avail.  Writ- 
ing comes  in.  Paper  and  ink  become  the  medium 
for  our  vision.  So  literature  is  born,  when  such 
experience  and  such  desire  come  to  a  great  soul. 

It  follows  that  he  who  writes  has  a  real  vision 
to  impart,  and  that  he  is  not  writing  merely  for 
effect.  "To  invoke  ideas  with  words  is  a  much 
more  difficult  experience  than  the  reverse  process," 
says  John  Burroughs.^  It  is  not  only  more  difficult, 
but  more  fruitless.  We  write  that  another  may 
share  our  thrill;  and  unless  we  have  genuinely  felt 
it,  we  cannot  impart  it.  Literature  always  bears 
the  impress  of  personality;  a  man  writes  himself 
1  Literary  Values,  p.  73,  Riverby  Edition. 


102  THE  MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

into  his  work.  If  he  has  no  message,  he  delivers 
none;  if  he  has  seen  beauty  in  the  world,  it  is  beauty 
that  he  shows  us;  if  he  has  seen  pain,  and  cruelty, 
and  ugliness,  and  pettiness,  he  will  represent  these; 
if  he  understands  only  facts,  he  will  give  us  facts. 
It  is  just  as  true  that  one  man  sees  and  feels  what 
another  may  pass  by.  What  seems  dull  common- 
place to  one,  may  be  music  to  another.  "Two  men 
have  the  same  thoughts;  they  use  about  the  same 
words  in  expressing  them;  yet  with  one  the  product 
is  real  literature,  with  the  other  it  is  a  platitude."  ^ 
The  difference  is  in  the  personality  of  the  men. 
Behind  the  worthy  novel,  the  great  poem,  the 
powerful  Short-story,  there  is  a  sincere  personality 
revealing  itself  in  literary  form.  The  world  is 
interested  in  personality.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
facts  that  a  man  sees  that  interest  us;  it  is  the  facts 
become  a  part  of  the  man  himself.  Beauty  comes 
to  every  one  differently,  for  each  infuses  something 
of  his  own  life  into  what  he  sees.  Some  more  than 
others  have  this  power  of  revealing  themselves. 
The  friends  of  Phillips  Brooks  are  said  to  have  been 
satisfied  simply  to  sit  in  his  study  and  watch  him 
work.  Ordinarily,  however,  we  expect  to  listen 
to  men  as  they  talk,  or  to  read  what  they  write, 
and  thus  to  come  to  see  through  their  eyes,  to 
touch  their  spirits,  to  feel  the  irradiation  of  their 
personalities. 

All    literature    demands    personahty   as    a   basis. 
Yet  he  who  would  write  stories  must  have  certain 
1  Burroughs,  Literary  Values,  p.  59,  Riverby  Edition. 


THE   PERSONALITY    OF   THE   WRITER  193 

qualities  specially  developed.  First  of  all,  the 
good  story-teller  has  the  intellectual  abihty  of 
grasping  facts,  —  facts  of  all  sorts  —  scientific 
facts,  narrative  facts,  imaginative  facts,  historical 
facts,  —  just  plain  facts.  He  sees  everything  around 
him.  He  knows  the  feel  of  the  winds,  the  tones  of 
the  foliage,  the  effects  of  the  fogs,  the  movements 
of  the  butterflies,  the  chirping  of  the  crickets.  He 
knows  people;  he  studies  their  appearance,  their 
manners,  their  habits.  He  needs  to  know  how  they 
talk  to  their  dogs  and  how  they  look  when  they 
are  doing  a  washing.  No  knowledge,  however 
trivial,  is  to  be  scorned  by  the  story-writer.  He 
observes  details,  the  little  facts;  yet  he  does  not 
let  the  more  important  escape  him.  We  are  con- 
stantly astonished  at  the  minute  and  diversified 
knowledge  which  Kipling  displays.  We  have  reason 
to  beheve  that  this  information  did  not  come  to 
him  unsought.  He  was  always  questioning,  w^atch- 
ing,  experiencing.  0.  Henry  has  told  us  with  what 
painstaking  he  gathered  his  facts.  He  never  met 
any  one,  he  said,  from  whom  in  the  course  of  a  con- 
versation, he  could  not  gain  some  valuable  infor- 
mation. Maupassant  was  an  indefatigable  observer, 
as  his  stories  testify.  He  sought  not  only  the  facts 
themselves,  but  he  sought  to  penetrate  to  their 
essential  nature,  —  to  see  what  differentiated  them 
from  other  like  facts.  In  his  oft-quoted  Introduc- 
tion to  Pierre  et  Jean,  he  says:  "In  everything  there 
is  still  some  spot  unexplored,  because  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  look  at  things  only  with  the  recollection 


194  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

of  what  others  before  us  have  thought  of  the  sub- 
ject we  are  contemplating.  The  smallest  object 
contains  something  unknown.  Let  us  find  it.  In 
order  to  describe  a  fire  that  flames,  and  a  tree  on 
the  plain,  we  must  keep  looking  at  that  flame  and 
that  tree,  until  to  our  eyes  they  no  longer  resemble 
any  other  tree,  any  other  fire."  It  is  this  minute 
and  careful  observation  which,  so  far  as  he  is  able, 
every  Short-story  writer  must  cultivate. 

Along  with  a  knowledge  of  facts,  the  story-teller 
has  the  imaginative  abflity  of  realizing  what  he  has 
not  personally  experienced.  He  is  called  upon  to 
write  many  things  wliich  have  not  been  in  his  own 
narrow  life.  Yet  through  his  imagination  he  is 
able  to  correlate  his  facts,  and  make  his  picture. 
What  he  reads,  what  he  hears  told,  these  he  sees 
as  if  they  were  passing  before  him.  Thus  he  is 
able  to  sort  out  the  congruous  from  the  incongruous, 
to  distinguish  the  natural  from  the  unnatural,  to 
know  when  passion  is  fitting,  and  when  coolness. 
He  is  able  to  enter  into  the  fife  of  those  he  depicts, 
to  appreciate  their  circumstances,  to  understand 
their  motives,  —  even  when  these  things  would  not 
be  his  own.  He  needs  to  be  able  to  put  himself 
temporarily  in  the  place  of  his  character,  to  think 
his  thoughts,  to  do  his  deeds.  How  understandingly 
Stevenson  shows  us  Markheim.  He  entered  imagi- 
natively into  the  situation.  Poe  had  perfect  imag- 
inative insight  into  the  character  of  Montresor. 
From  beginning  to  end,  the  story  shows  Poe's 
ability  to  penetrate  into  the  deep-seated  vindictive- 


THE   PERSONALITY   OF   THE   WRITER  195 

ness  of  the  man.  Not  that  it  possesses  this  quahty 
conspicuously  above  other  portions  of  the  story,  but 
as  an  illustration,  let  us  look  at  this  passage: 

"Here  I  knocked  off  the  neck  of  a  bottle  which 
I  drew  from  a  long  row  of  its  fellows  that  lay  upon 
the  mould. 

"'Drink,'  I  said,  presenting  him  the  wine. 

"He  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  leer.  He  paused 
and  nodded  to  me  familiarly,  while  his  bells  jingled. 

"'I  drink,'  he  said,  'to  the  buried  that  repose 
around  us.' 

'"And  I  to  your  long  life.'" 

In  a  flash,  Montresor  has  realized  the  unwitting 
appropriateness  of  Fortunato's  toast,  and  in  the 
cool  consciousness  that  he  is  already  drinking  to 
the  buried,  though  living,  Fortunato,  he  answers, 
"And  I  to  your  long  life."  So  thoroughly  had 
Poe  imagined  situation  and  character  that  he  could 
unerringly  represent  Montresor  in  this  moment  of 
vindictive  foresight.  It  is  hard  to  surpass  in  the 
representing  of  utter  fiendishness  this  gloating  over 
the  long  hours  of  living  death  soon  to  overtake  the 
victim. 

Along  with  his  imaginative  insight  —  an  intel- 
lectual quality  —  the  story-writer  needs  sympathy, 
which  is  emotional  in  nature.  He  need  not  represent 
that  which  is  unbeautiful  as  beautiful,  or  that  which 
is  not  good  as  good.  Sympathy  is  not  partisan- 
ship. It  is  the  abihty  to  feel  that  which  one  has 
already  realized  of  a  situation  intellectually.     Steven- 


196  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

son  had  imaginative  insight,  but  along  with  it 
sympathy.  How  fully  Kipling  caught  the  spirit  of 
Miss  Florence,  and  how  sympathetically  he  has 
portrayed  it.  How  unreservedly  Mr.  Stimson  has 
let  himself  feel  the  love,  the  despair,  the  hope  of 
Mrs.  Knollys.  One  may  coldly  enumerate  the 
details,  the  events  of  such  stories,  but  the  stories 
will  never  live  unless  one  puts  life  into  them.  Life 
is  always  warm;  a  cold  relation  of  life  can  only 
chill.  Stories  are  written  not  in  the  mood  of  scien- 
tific analysis,  but  of  lively  enthusiasm. 

Because  Guy  de  Maupassant  was  unwilling  to 
influence  his  readers,  he  adopted  the  dispassionate 
attitude.  He  robbed  his  stories  of  much  that 
might  have  made  them  real.  Perfect  in  form, 
they  yet  seem  more  the  productions  of  a  machine 
than  the  warm  creations  of  a  man's  imagination. 
His  people  are  interesting.  He  describes  them  as 
he  would  have  described  a  tree  or  a  stone.  We 
admire  his  grasp  of  facts,  his  ability  to  make  an 
imaginative  situation,  but  his  stories  live  only  ob- 
jectively for  us.  We  watch  Madame  Loisel,  we  are 
sorry  for  her  sufferings,  we  appreciate  the  irony 
of  the  result;  but  we  never  suffer  with  her.  The 
writer  himself  was  a  spectator,  and  we,  too,  are 
but  onlookers  at  a  struggle.  Observation  has  sup- 
planted realization.  The  story  is  a  fact  but  not  an 
experience.  Mr.  Esenwein  says  excellently:  "Mau- 
passant was  also  a  Hteralist,  and  this  native  trait 
served  to  render  his  realism  colder  and  more  unsym- 
pathetic.    By  this  I  mean  that  to  him  two  and  three 


THE  PERSONALITY   OF  THE   WRITER         197 

always  summed  up  five  —  his  Lemperament  would 
not  allow  for  the  unseen,  imponderable  force  of 
spiritual  things;  and  even  when  he  mentions  the 
spiritual,  it  is  with  a  sort  of  tolerant  unbelief  which 
scorns  to  deny  the  superstitious  solace  of  women, 
weakhngs  and  zealots."  ^  Hence  Maupassant,  con- 
summate master  of  form  and  Short-story  technique 
though  he  is,  has  failed  to  reach  and  control  the 
hearts  of  men.-^ 

Although  having  certain  common  qualities,  the 
personalities  of  story-tellers  vary  widely.  This  dif- 
ference naturally  shows  itself  in  the  kind  of  story 
that  each  one  can  write  best.  One  may  have  special 
ability  in  treating  the  humorous.  For  another,  the 
pathetic  may  be  the  imaginative  stimulus.  Some 
persons  may  write  of  the  occult  with  greater  natural 
zest  than  they  could  of  the  simple  and  plain.  As 
the  personality  of  the  writer  varies,  so  varies  the 
type  of  story  that  he  can  most  effectively  produce. 
This   divergence   affects   not   only   one's   choice   of 

1  Short-slory  Masterpieces:  French.  Edited  by  J.  B.  Esen- 
wein,  pp.  54-5. 

2  That  he  was  conscious  at  times  of  this  withering  weakness 
in  his  own  personaUty  appears  pitifully  in  a  letter  of  his  to  Marie 
BashkirtselT:  "Everything  in  life  is  almost  alike  to  me,  men, 
women,  events.  This  is  my  true  confession  of  faith,  and  I  may 
add  what  you  may  not  believe,  which  is  that  I  do  not  care 
any  more  for  myself  than  I  do  for  the  rest.  All  is  divided  into 
ennui,  comedy,  and  misery.  I  am  indifferent  to  everything.  I 
pass  two-thirds  of  my  time  in  being  terribly  bored.  I  pass  the 
third  portion  in  writing  sentences  which  I  sell  as  dear  as  I  can, 
regretting  that  I  have  to  ply  this  abominable  trade."  Quoted 
by  Pol.  Neveu.\  in  his  study  of  Guy  do  Maupassant 


108  THE   MODERN    SHORT-STORY 

subjects,  but  one's  attitude  toward  them.  What 
seems  humor  as  told  by  one  often  falls  flat  when 
related  by  another.  Whether  one's  attitude  is 
playful  or  serious  is  determined  by  the  nature  of 
the  writer.  Mr.  Aldrich  might  have  treated  Mar- 
jorie  Daw  seriously,  but  for  him  the  whimsical  was 
the  natural  manner.  How  different  are  Hawthorne, 
and  Kipling,  and  Henry  James,  and  Poe,  in  their 
stories!  Hawthorne  was  always  trying  to  work  out 
the  spiritual  relations  of  things.  He  was  a  moral 
analyst.  Kipling  seems  to  love  life  in  all  its  aspects. 
His  is  a  buoyant  nature,  always  finding  novelty, 
always  searching  for  that  which  is  interesting.  He 
is  not  subtle.  He  accepts  the  world  as  he  finds  it; 
and  he  finds  it  a  place  full  of  love  and  hatred,  full 
of  suffering  and  woe,  yet  withal  full  of  exuberant 
life.  Henry  James  is  the  intellectual  analyst,  eager 
to  work  out  all  problems  rationally.  He  finds  the 
world  an  interesting  phenomenon.  He  loves  it  as 
a  mechanic  loves  his  engine.  He  would  adjust  the 
machinery,  tighten  a  bolt,  and  oil  a  bearing.  Poe, 
on  the  other  hand,  entered  into  hfe  with  a  passion, 
—  but  a  morbid  passion.  All  beauty  was  for  him 
poisoned  with  decay. ^  Imagine  Hawthorne  trying 
to  write  a  story  with  the  single  impression  of  They. 

1  "Passionately  fond  of  beauty,  he  conceived  the  melancholy 
idea  that  beauty  and  grace  are  interesting  only  in  their  over- 
throw. 'I  have  imbibed,'  he  says,  'the  shadows  of  fallen  col- 
umns at  Balbec,  and  Tadmor,  and  Persepolis,  until  my  very 
soul  has  become  a  ruin.'  And  his  stories  have  the  romantic 
interest  of  glimpses  of  splendid  ruins."  Albright,  The  Short- 
slory,  p.  185. 


THE   PERSONALITY   OF   THE    WRITER  199 

He  would  have  made  it  uncanny.  It  would  have 
made  its  reader  feel  as  if  he  were  trespassing 
on  another  realm.  Imagine  Kipling  writing  The 
Madonna  of  the  Future.  Instead  of  emphasizing 
Mr.  Theobald's  artistic  idealism,  Kipling  would 
have  insisted  on  the  heart-break  of  the  man's 
failure.  How  different,  too,  were  the  touches  of 
Poe  and  Hawthorne.  It  is  the  personality  of  the 
individual  men  which  makes  the  difference  in  their 
stories. 

He  who  writes  stories  knows  his  own  personality. 
He  has  found  by  experience  the  kind  of  stories  which 
he  can  write  best.  He  feels  it  his  duty  to  express 
his  own  personality  and  not  to  write  stories  or  to 
use  a  style  absolutely  foreign  to  his  nature.  He 
need  have  no  fear  of  expressing  himself,  for  the  world 
may  be  waiting,  unconsciously,  for  just  what  he 
has  to  say  in  the  way  that  he  chooses  to  say  it. 
By  trying  to  imitate  another's  stories  or  another's 
style,  he  loses  his  own  originality,  which  is  nothing 
more  or  less  than  the  genuine  reflection  of  his 
personahty.^  He  never  can  do  so  well  as  can  the 
one  he  is  trying  to  imitate.  Moreover,  he  can 
never  assimilate  another's  personality.     If  he  try, 

'  "And  that  virtue  of  originality  that  men  so  strain  after, 
is  not  newness,  as  they  vainly  think  (there  is  nothing  new), 
it  is  only  genuineness;  it  all  depends  on  this  single  glorious 
faculty  of  getting  to  the  spring  of  things  and  working  out  from 
that;  it  is  the  coolness,  and  clearness,  and  dcliciousncss  of  the 
water  fresh  from  the  fountain  head,  opposed  to  the  thick,  hot, 
unrefreshing  drainage  from  other  men's  meadows."  Ruskin, 
Modern  Painters,  vol.  ii,  sec.  ii,  chap.  Ill,  p.  253,  Library  Edition. 


200  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

he  will  be  neither  himself  nor  the  other  person; 
he  will  be  in  a  limbo  of  his  own  from  which  only 
a  long  penitence  and  the  reclaiming  of  his  own 
proper  self  can  ever  release  him.  He  may,  as  did 
Stevenson  for  awhile,  play  the  sedulous  ape  to  many 
masters,  but  in  the  end  his  Short-stories  will  be 
valuable  only  in  proportion  as  they  express  his  own 
personality. 

When  one  takes  personality  as  well  as  form  into 
account,  the  great  Short-story  rises  to  something 
of  the  dignity  of  the  poem.  In  studying  it  appre- 
ciatively, still  more  in  writing  it,  one  is  forced  not 
only  to  the  realization  of  a  careful  literary  form, 
but  also  to  the  development  —  to  a  greater  or 
less  extent  —  of  those  same  qualities  of  intellectual 
grasp,  of  imaginative  power,  and  of  sympathetic 
insight  which  belong  to  the  great  story-teller.  One 
may  say  also  of  the  Short-story:  "Of  course  the 
suggestiveness  of  any  work  —  poem,  picture,  novel, 
essay  —  depends  largely  upon  what  we  bring  to  it; 
whether  we  bring  a  kindred  spirit  or  an  alien  one, 
a  full  mind  or  an  empty  one,  an  alert  sense  or  a  dull 
one.  If  you  have  been  there,  so  to  speak,  if  you  have 
passed  through  the  experience  described,  if  you 
have  known  the  people  portrayed,  if  you  have 
thought,  or  tried  to  think,  the  thoughts  the  author 
exploits,  the  work  will  have  a  deeper  meaning  to 
you  than  to  one  who  is  a  stranger  to  these  things. 
...  It  is  the  deep  hollows  and  passes  of  the  moun- 
tains that  give  back  your  voice  in  prolonged  rever- 
berations.    The   tides   are  in   the   sea,   not  in   the 


THE   PERSONALITY   OE   THE   WRITER  201 

lakes  and  ponds.  Words  of  deep  import  do  not 
mean  much  to  a  child.  The  world  of  books  is 
under  the  same  law  as  these  things.  What  any- 
given  work  yields  us  depends  largely  upon  what 
we  bring  to  it."  ^  Moreover,  in  writing,  a  man  is 
led  to  explore  his  own  personality.  He  is  seeing 
the  world  through  his  own  eyes.  Things  take  on 
fresh  luster  because  they  are  made  new  to  him. 
He  is  no  longer  the  slave  of  other  men's  vision. 
He  is  himself.  As  Mr.  Eastman  says,  in  Enjoyment 
of  Poetry:  "This  is  the  priesthood  of  art  —  not  to 
bestow  upon  the  universe  a  new  aspect,  but  upon 
the  beholder  a  new  enthusiasm." 

We  read  a  great  Short-story  as  we  do  a  great 
poem,  —  not  to  feel  a  moment's  yearning,  the  call 
of  something  which  can  never  distinctly  reach  us; 
we  read  it  because  it  fills  us  with  a  new  enthusiasm 
for  living.  It  makes  us  wish  to  endure,  and  love, 
and  hate;  to  hope,  aspire,  and  work;  to  fill  our 
youth  with  joyous  labor,  and  to  grow  old  still  in  the 
joy  of  living.  We  wish  to  go  forth  with  the  tingling 
of  battle  in  our  nerves.  We  should  soon  revert  to 
the  humdrum,  to  think  that  every  day  is  like  every 
other  day,  to  think  that  every  star  is  like  every 
other  star,  to  let  our  thoughts  run  ever  around  in 
the  same  track,  to  carry  out  the  details  of  life  as  if 
we  were  machines,  were  there  not  always  before 
us  stimulation  to  new  achievement,  were  our  eyes 
not  opened  by  our  catching  now  and  then  a  glimpse 
of  another's  vision.     All  true  art  has  this  beneficent 

^  Burroughs,  Literary   Values,  pp.  239-40,  Riverby  Edition. 


202  THE   MODERN   SHORT-STORY 

effect;  one  cannot  indeed  claim  it  for  the  Short- 
story  alone.  Yet  the  Short-story  may  have  its 
share  in  keeping  the  echo  of  true  aspirations  ring- 
ing through  men's  souls.  The  great  Short-story 
does  not  die  when  it  is  read.  It  has  awakened 
thoughts  which  rouse  men  from  their  drowsiness, 
nor  do  they  ever  go  back  into  quite  their  old  lethargy. 
They  feel  new  impulse  to  experience,  to  fresh  re- 
solve. The  lesser  Short-story  may  have  swept  our 
emotion  an  hour,  and  be  gone  as  the  wind  from  the 
tree-tops;  but  the  great  Short-story  takes  its  place 
in  art  along  with  great  poetry,  great  music,  great 
painting. 

The  present  commercialization  of  the  Short-story 
is  working  against  this  development  and  revelation 
of  personahty.  "Give  the  pubhc  what  it  demands" 
is  the  saying,  —  irrespective  of  whether  that  is 
what  a  writer  wishes  to  produce  or  can  produce 
best,  if  he  but  take  the  time.  To  be  true  to  one- 
self is  a  difficult  task,  a  high  calling:  it  takes  time, 
and  courage,  and  devotion  to  an  ideal.  Many 
people  can  grind  out  a  best  seller  for  some  cheap 
periodical;  few  are  wilhng  to  pay  the  price  that 
produces  a  Mrs.  Knolhjs,  or  a  They.  It  is  to  be 
regretted,  too,  that  many  books  treating  of  the 
Short-story  are  encouraging  this  commercial  spirit. 
Let  us  rather  enter  our  protest  in  the  name  of  true 
art.  Let  us  urge  anew  upon  every  one  who  would 
enter  the  Short-story  field  to  come  to  it  as  to  high 
art,  with  a  message:  to  be  true  to  the  highest,  to 
live  by  the  gospel  of  the  best.     To  produce  a  Short- 


THE   PERSONALITY    OF   THE   WRITER         203 

story  in  this  way  may  take  a  lifetime.      Yet  the 
true  writer  knows  how 

...  to  bide  his  Lime 

And  can  his  fame  abide. 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime. 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains  with  their  guns  and  drums 

Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour. 

But  at  last  silence  comes,^ 

and  the  verdict  of  ages. 

^  James  Russell  Lowell,- Harvard  Commemoration  Ode. 


INDEX 


Accessory  characters:  purpose 
of  in  plot,  18,  61-r);  in  struc- 
ture, 77;  uses  of,  78-82 

Accomplishments,  suggestive  of 
character,  153 

Action:  time  for,  and  place  of, 
18;  story  of,  21;  as  material 
of  plot,  56;  relation  of  char- 
acters to  a.,  61;  antecedent 
a.,  90-2;  a  form  of  beginning, 
112;  a  means  of  characteri- 
zation, 118-9 

Adventure-story,  25 

Aim  of  Short-story,  77 

Albright,  Evelyn  May,  The 
Shoii-story,  5,  7,  11,  15,  27, 
40,  198,  n., 

Aldhich,   Thomas   Bah^ey, 
MarjorieDaw,  66-7,  91,  96-7, 
107,  126,  136,  198 

Allegory,  26 

"Angles  of  Narration":  77,93- 
9;  objective  a.,  93—4,  99,  n.; 
participant  a.,  94-7,  99,  n.; 
story  within  story  a.,  97-9, 
99,  n.;   witness  a.,  97,  99,  n. 

Animals  as  characters,  63 

Antecedent  action,  90-2 

Appearance,  as  suggestive  of 
character,  150-52 

Argumentation,  no  proper  place 
for  in  Short-story,  46 

Association,  value  for  atmos- 
phere, 158,  163,  166 

Atmosphere:  its  nature,  158-9; 
relation  to  setting,  158-9; 
value  of,  159;  strengthens 
single  impression,  160-61; 
means  of  producing  a.,  161- 
7;  aids  to  a.,  167-72;  as 
colored  by  style,  181 


Attitude  of  writer,  as  influen- 
cing story,  22,  197-8 

Bach,  Johann  Sebastian,  174 

Background:  characters  used, 
as  b.,  69,  80,  82;  local  color  as 
b.,  171 

Balzac,  Honore  de.  An  Epi- 
sode under  the  Terror,  1 25 

Beginning  of  Short-story,  77, 
103,  lfO-21;  important,  103; 
its  harmony  with  end, 
108-10;  length  of  b.,  110; 
how  determined,  110-11; 
function  of  b.,  Ill;  forms  of 
b.,  112-14;  first  sentence  of 
b.,  114-15;  limits  of  b.,  as 
determined  in  eight  cited 
Short-stories,  115-21 

Biography,  a  source  of  germinal 
ideas,  42 

Black,  E.  C,  The  Future  of  the 
Short-story,  27,  44 

Blaisdell,  Thomas  C,  Compo- 
sition-Rhetoric, 44 

Boccaccio,  Giovanni,  98 

BoRDONE,  Paris,  Fisherman  Re- 
turning the  Ring,  69 

Brevity  of  Short-story,  3,  174, 
175 

Brooks,  Phillips,  134,  192 

Burroughs,   John,   Literary 
Values,  191,  192,  200-201 

Canby,  Henry  Seidel,  17,  A 
Study  of  the  Short-story,  9, 
n.,  44;  The  Short-story  in 
English,  58 

Character:  Story  of  c,  21,  59, 
63;  as  plot-material,  56;  re- 
lation of  c.  and  action,  56-7; 


206 


INDEX 


a  factor  of  beginning.    111; 
a  form  of  beginning,  112-13; 
complex,   133;    limits  of  de- 
velopment    in     Short-story, 
138-9 
Characterization:      swift     and 
intense,  129-30;  requisites  in 
c,    129-30;    an   idealization, 
131-2;    importance  of  main 
incident  for  c,  130-41;  aid- 
ed   by  sympathetic   attitude 
of   reader,    140-41;   gradual, 
144-6;      by    narrator,     146; 
methods  of  c.  —  direct,  142- 
7,    indirect,    147-8;     by   ob- 
served influence,  149-50 
Characters  in  Short-story:  main 
and     accessory,     18,     62-5; 
uniqueness  of  main,  63-4;   c. 
in  plot,  when  and  how  chosen, 
62-5,  —  examples  from  four 
Short-stories,  66-73;  develop- 
ing c,  meaning  and  uses,  77, 
78-82;    examples,    ibid;  dis- 
tinguished as,  typical,  133-4, 
generic,     134-6,     individual, 
136-7 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  91 
Chopin,  Frederic,  174 
Climax:     essential    to    Short- 
story,  10,  20,  56,  70;  what  it 
is,  10-11;  selective  emphasis 
upon  c,  12,  19;  relation  of  c. 
to  single  impression,  15,  59; 
how  attained,  56;  place  of  c, 
57;   as  guiding  plot-construc- 
tion, 57,  62;   forms  of  c,  57- 
9;  in  character-story,  59;  c. 
illustrated,  58,  67,  68-9,  71; 
relation  of  c.  to  theme,  67;  c. 
as  end  of  story,  details  may 
assist    c.     86,     104-6;     may 
be  enhanced  by  atmospheric 
background,  165 
Cody,     Siii;rwin,      Shoii-storij 
Writing  and  Journalism,  24, 
40 
Commercialization     of     Short- 
story,  202 
Commonplaces      as      subject- 
matter,  7-8 


Complication;  a  preparation 
for  climax,  59;  involves  con- 
flict, 59-61;  circumstances 
leading  to  c,  61-2,  70,- 
examples,  67-9,  74;  c.  il- 
lustrated, 66,  68,  69,  73; 
sensing  of  c.  marks  limit  of 
beginning,  110-11 

Contrast,  as  germinal  idea,  38; 
use  of  in  the  portraying  of 
character,  64-5,  72,  79,  155; 
use  for  atmosphere,  167-9; 
emphasized  by  local  color, 
171-72 

CoppEE,  Francois,  The  Substi- 
stiite,  10 

Corot,  Jean,  174 

Crises:  as  subject-matter,  7; 
may  be  gradation  in  c,  83-4 

Crucial  incidents  and  situations 
not  essential,  6-7 

Daudet,  Alphonse,  The  Last 
Class,  13 

Dawson,  W.  J.,  36 

Description,  nature  of  in  rela- 
tion to  atmosphere,  161-65 

Details:  value  for  verisimili- 
tude, 101-2;  may  burden 
characterization,  143,  or  de- 
scription, 166 

Detective  story,  17,  22 

Dialect,  172 

Dialogue,  156-7 

Diary,  "angle"  of,  96-7 

Didacticism,  26,  49 

Directness,  see  Dramatic  in- 
tensity 

Divisions  of  narrative,  92-3 

Dominant  note:  relation  to  end 
and  beginning,  110;  value 
for  tone.  111 

Dramatic  intensity,  a  style 
quality,  176-9 

Dreams,  as  germinal  idea,  41 

D\K,CuARnY,71ie  Story-Teller's 
Art,  39 

Eastman,  Max,  Enjoyment   of 

Poetry,  201 
Economic  question,  story  of,  23 


INDEX 


207 


Economy  of  means;  a  principle 
of  structure,  77-8;  a  principle 
of  style,  176 

Effect,  single,  see  Impression 

Effects,  value  for  atmosphere, 
166-7 

Elements  of  story,  21 

Emotional  incidents:  use  for 
atmosphere,  79-80,  85-6, 166; 
use  for  minor  crises  in  struc- 
ture, 83-1 

Emphasis:  must  be  sustained, 
12;  selective,  19;  utmost  e., 
a  principle  of  structure,  77-8 

End  of  Short-storv,  77;  impor- 
tance of,  103-1,' 121;  relation 
to  single  impression,  103-4; 
climax  as  e.,  101-6;  form 
varies,  101;  a  surprise,  105- 
6;  tapering  off  from  climax, 
106-7;  as  intensifier  of  single 
eiTect,  107-8;  a  comment, 
107;  harmony  of  e.  with  be- 
ginning, 108-10 

Environment:  in  plot,  65-6,67, 
74;  its  meaning  for  character- 
ization, 133,  135-6;  a  means 
of  characterization,  153-4 

EsENWEiN,  J.  Behg,  Shorl-storij 
Masterpieces:  French,  196-7; 
Sliidying  the  Short-stonj,  25, 
41,48;  Writing  the  Short-stonj, 
45 

Events,  order  of  in  Short-story, 
77, 89-92 

Experience,  a  source  of  germi- 
nal ideas,  39-42 

Facts:     use   of   in   fiction,    53; 

quickened    by    feeling,    190; 

grasp  of  f.  essential,  193-4 
Fansler,  I Iabhioi't Ely,  Ti]pes 

of  Prose  Narralires,  26,  100 
Fairy  stories,  99-100 
Figurative  language,  181-6 
First  sentence   in   Shorl-story: 

its    varieties    and    purposes, 

114-5;     examination    of,    in 

several  stories,  109,  115-21 
Foreshadowing,    value    of    for 

atmosphere,  169-170 


FRANgois,  Recnllections  of  Guy 
de  Maupassant,  131-32,  n. 

Freeman,  Mary  Wilkins,  8; 
The  Revolt  of  Mother,  68, 
81-2,  85,  86,  90,  106,  115-6, 
126,  134,  137-8,  145,  154 

Garland,  Hamlin,  The  Branch 

Road,2-^ 

Generalization:  a  form  of  be- 
ginning, 113-4;  in  The  Man 
Who  would  Be  King,  120 

Germinal  idea:  distinguished 
and  defined,  29-31;  its  vari- 
ety, 31-9;  its  sources,  39-42; 
testing  it  for  possibilities,  43 

Hackneyed  themes  and  meth- 
ods, why  unfortunate,  45-6 

Hale,  Edward  Everett,  The 
Man  Without  a  Country,  20, 
65,  n. 

Hamilton,  Clayton,  Materials 
and  Methods  of  Fiction,  11-% 

Harmony  of  end  and  beginning, 
108-10 

Harper's  Weekly,  4 

IIarte,  Bret,  47:  The  Luck  of 
Roaring  Camp,  10;  The  Out- 
casts of  Poker  Flat,  29-30,  49, 
70-4,  79,  84,  88,  91,  94,  108, 
109,  126,  135,  139,  141,  148, 
168,  170,  177 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  21, 
34,  37,  n.,  198,  199;  American 
Note  Books,  33-4 ;  Rappaccin  i's 
Daughter,  13;  The  Birthmark, 
34;  71w  Great  Stone  Face,  10; 
The  Scarlet  Letter,  14 

Henry,  O.,  99,  n.,  176,  193; 
After  Twenty  Years,  93,  105- 
6,  109,  119,  146,  147,  149- 
51,  157,  160-61;  By  Courier, 
176 

History,  a  source  of  germinal 
ideas,  42 

HowELLS,  Wm.  Dean,  10 

Idea,  see  Germinal  idea 
Imaginative  insight,  needed  by 
story-writer,  194-5 


208 


INDEX 


Impression,  of  character,  as 
germinal  idea,  32;  of  setting, 
36-8 

Impression,  single:  a  constitu- 
ent of  the  Short-story,  3,  12; 
what  it  is,  13;  its  power, 
kinds,  importance,  13-4; 
unlike  that  of  novel,  14;  how 
attained,  15;  relation  to 
climax,  15,  59;  emotional 
rather  than  intellectual,  16; 
Poe's  estimate  of,  19;  first 
sentence  as  affecting,  19; 
when  selected,  49-50;  intensi- 
fied at  end,  104;  stated 
briefly  for  several  Short- 
stories,  13,  108,117,  141,  160, 
162;  as  guiding  style,  174 

Incidents:  crucial,  not  neces- 
sary, 6-7;  what  they  are,  9; 
distinguished  from  situations, 
9;  in  adventure  stories,  25; 
as  germinal  idea,  32-3;  in 
structure,  77,  82-6;  use  and 
classes  of,  82-6;  to  further 
movement,  83-4;  to  illus- 
trate, 84-5;  to  awaken  emo- 
tion, 85-6;  value  of  emotional 
incidents  for  atmosphere, 
166-7 

Individuality:  many-sided,  137; 
to  be  drawn  with  restraint, 
ibid. 

Intellectual  grasp,  needed  by 
story-teller,  193-4 

James,  Henry,  92,  99,  n.; 
The  Madonna  of  the  Future, 
79,85,98,  104,  127,  133,  146, 
151-2,  154,  155-6,  171,  198, 
199 

Jessupand  Canby,  The  Book  of 
the  Short-story,  6 

JoHNSox,  C.  F.,  Elements  of 
Literary  Criticism,  132 

Kipling,  Rudyard,  47,  99,  n., 
193,  196,  198,  199;  Without 
Benefit  of  Clergy,  5;  .007,  63; 
Life's  Handicap,  41,  48;  The 
Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft,  13; 


The  Man  Who  Was,  124; 
The  Brushwood  Boy,  126; 
The  Man  Who  Would  Be 
King,  68-70,  86,  91,  97-8, 
101,  106-7,  120-21,  124,  135, 
150,  153,  155,  171-2,  175-6; 
They,  9,  13,  58,  80,  85,  95, 
100-1,  106,  109.  118,  127-8, 
134,  146,  149,  154,  157,  160, 
162-5, 166-7, 175, 182-3, 196, 
198,  202 
Knowledge,  intimate,  needed 
for  Short-stor>%  46-8 

Length,  of  Short-story    17;  of 

beginning,  110 
Letter,  "angle"  of,  96-7 
Lieberman,  Elias,  The  Ameri- 
can Short-story,  24,  n. 
Local  color,  170-72 
Locality,  story  of  special,  24 
Lodge,  William  Cabot,  134 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  Har- 
vard     Commemoration      Ode 
(quoted),  203 
Lyric,  Short-story  compared  to, 
4,  n. 

Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright,  6 

Mannerisms,  as  germinal  idea, 
35 

Matthews,  Brander,  The  Phi- 
losophy of  the  Short-story,  3, 
n.,  11 

Maupassant,  Guy  de,  8,  99, 
n.,  131-2,  n.,  193,  196,  197 
n.;  The  Horla,  22;  The  Neck- 
lace, 5,  59,  126,  177-8,  196, 
Une  Vendetta,  126;  Angelus, 
132  note;  Recollections  of,  132 
note;  Pierre  et  Jean  (Intro- 
duction), 193-4 

Meredith,  George,  Diana  of 
the  Crossways  (quoted),  136,  n. 

Merrick,  Leonard,  The  Trag- 
edy of  a  Comic  Song,  125; 
Little  -  Flower  -  of-  the-  Wood, 
178-9 

Mission,  of  the  Short-story,  27 

Mood,  story  of,  25;  as  germinal 
idea,  38 


INDEX 


209 


Motif,  see  Motive 

Motion,  use  of  in  Markheim, 
183-4 

Motive,  distinguished  and  de- 
fined, 29-30 

MouLTON,  R.  G.,  Shakespeare 
As  a  Dramatic  Artist,  9,  n., 
168,  n. 

Mystery  story,  22 

Names:  as  germinal  ideas,  38; 
rarely  good  titles,  124;  as 
suggestive  of  character,  152- 
3 

Narrative  interest,  a  constitu- 
ent of  the  Short-story,  3 

Neveux,  Pol.  (quoted),  197 

Newspaper,  a  source  of  germi- 
nal ideas,  42 

Novelty,  in  the  Short-story, 
48 

Objective  "angle  of  narration," 

93-4 
O'Brien,    Fitz    James,    What 

Was  It?     A  Mystery,  22 
Observation,    close,    necessary, 

39-41,  193-4 
Obstacle,     necessary     to     plot 

complication,  59-61 
Order,  of  events,  77,  89-92 
Originality,  what  it  is,  199,  n. 

Parable,  26 

Participant,   "angle"   of,   94-7 

Perry,  Bliss,  A  Study  of  Prose 
Fiction,  4,  n. 

Personality:  how  essential  190- 
91;  special  qualities  of  p. 
indispensable  for  story-writ- 
ing, 192-7;  diverse  p.  of 
writers  manifests  itself  in 
work,  197-200;  cultural  value 
of  Short-story  study  to  p., 
200-202 

Picturesqueness,  a  style-qual- 
ity, 181-4 

Pitkin,  Walter,  12,  77,  93; 
Short-stonj  Writing,  11,  12, 
11,   16,  57 

Place,  of  action,  18,  66 


Plot:  a  constituent  of  the 
Short-story,  3;  defined,  11, 
12;  should  be  brief,  11,  n.; 
requires  selective  emphasis 
on  climax,  12,  19;  nature  and 
importance  of  p.,  51-2;  se- 
quence in  p.,  52,  74;  simplic- 
ity of,  54-5;  Short-story 
p.  essentially  different  from 
that  of  novel,  55-6;  climax 
essential  to  p.,  56,  70;  ma- 
terials, 56;  further  elements 
of  plot,  59-66,  70;  —  com- 
plication, 59-61;  circum- 
stances leading  to  complica- 
tion, 61-2;  characters,  62-5; 
environment,  65-6;  plots 
stated  and  discussed,  66-74 

PoE,  Edgar  Allan,  17-19, 
87,  99,  n.,  101,  152,  198, 
199;  The  Black  Cat,  13; 
The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum, 
13;  Purloined  Letter,  17; 
On  Ihavthorne's  Twice-Told 
Tales,  17-18,  19;  William 
Wilson,  22;  Berenice,  127;  The 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher, 
127;  The  Masque  of  the  Red 
Death,  87,  89,  108,  119-20, 
141,154,165,166,168,187-8; 
The  Cask  of  Amontillado, 
91,  109-10,  115,  125-6,  142, 
148-9,  169,  194-5 

Problem  story,  23 

Proportion,  in  story  elements, 
77,  86-7 

Proverb,  as  germinal  idea,  39 

Purpose  of  writer:  influences 
story,  22;  distinguished  from 
theme,  and  defined,  29-30; 
when  decided,  49;  as  guiding 
plot  construction,  62,  74-5 

Rankin,  T.  E.  (quoted),  4,  8 
Reading,  a  source  of  germinal 

ideas,  39,  42 
Refrain,  its  uses  in  structure, 

87-9 
Ruskin,  John,  132,  n.;  Modern 

Painters,  199,  n. 
RuvsDAEL,  Jacob,  174 


210 


INDEX 


Sciences,  as  source  of  germinal 
ideas,  42 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  The  Lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel  (quoted), 
20 

Selection,  necessity  of  in  Short- 
story,  5,  11-12,19 

Self-expression,  an  instinctive 
impulse,  190-91 

Sequence,  in  plot  construction, 
52,  74 

Setting:  story  of,  21;  as  germi- 
nal idea,  36-8;  its  value  for 
tone.  111,  113;  a  form  of  be- 
ginning, 112,  113;  its  rela- 
tion to  atmosphere,  158-9 

Short-story:  orthography  of, 
3,  n.;  defined,  18;  not 
always  technically  perfect, 
20;  types,  21;  kinds  classi- 
fied, 22-6;  possible  mission 
of,  27;  must  minister  to 
universal  interest  in  life,  48; 
cultural  value  of,  200-202; 
commercialization  of,  202 

Simplicity:  of  plot,  54-5;  a 
style-quality,  179-81 

Simpson,  E.  Blantyre,  The 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  Origi- 
nals, 76,  n.,  77,  n. 

Sinceritv,  in  self-expression, 
199-200 

Single  effect,  see  Single  im- 
pression 

Single  impression,  see  Impres- 
sion 

Singleness  of  form,  96-7 

Situation:  crucial,  not  essen- 
tial, 6-7;  defined,  and  dis- 
tinguished from  incident,  9; 
as  germinal  idea,  32,  33-5 

Sketcn,  distinguished  from 
Short-stoPy',  15 

Speech,  a  means  of  characteriza- 
tion, 154-7 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  99, 
n.,  102,  196;  Dr.  Jckijll  and 
Mr.  Hiide,  22;  The  Merrij 
Men,  36,  126;  A  Gossip  on 
Romance,  37-8;  Markheim, 
22,  84,  85,  91,  93,  105,  116, 


124,  136,  138,  139,  141,  145, 
150,  183-4,  185-6,  187,  194; 
Weir  of  Hermiston,  11,  n. 

Stimson,  Frederick  J.,  196; 
Mrs.  Knollys,  13,  84,  87,  88- 
9,  92,  97,  n.,  108,  117-19, 
124,  135,  139,  141,  144,  147- 
8,  149-50,  155,  160,  176,  180- 
82,  186,  196,  202 

Stockton,  Frank  R.,  The  Lady 
or  the  Tiger?  23 

Stories  classified,  22-6 

Stor>^  within  a  story,  "angle" 
of,  97-9 

Strindberg,  August,  The  Stone 
Man,  65,  n. 

Structure  of  the  Short-story: 
regularity  of,  4;  distinguished 
from  plot,  76;  guiding  princi- 
ple of,  77-8;  elements  of,  78- 
102 

Style  of  the  Short-story:  not 
peculiar  in  its  general  qual- 
ities, 173;  perfection  of  s. 
vital,  174-5;  each  story  has 
its  own,  176-9;  dramatic  in- 
tensity of,  176-9;  simplicity 
of,  179-81;  as  affecting  at- 
mosphere, 181;  picturesque- 
ness,  181-4;  figurative  s., 
184-6;    tone-qualities,  186-8 

Subject  matter,  restrictions  and 
range  of,  5-6 

Subject  of  story,  distinguished 
and  defined,  29-30 

Suspense,  23,  60,  67,  106 

Symbolism,  story  of,  26 

Sympathy,  necessary  to  story- 
writer,  195-7 

Tale,  distinguished  from  Short- 
story,  12 

Technique,  no  substitute  for 
soul,  189 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  The  Charge 
of  the  Light  Brigade  (quoted), 
89;   lyrics,  173 

Theme  distinguished  and  de- 
fined, 29-30;  as  germinal 
idea,  39;  should  be  telling, 
44-5;    as  guiding  plot  con- 


INDEX 


211 


struction,  62,  74-5;  varia- 
tions of,  87-9;  stated  for 
two  stories,  29,  67,  71 

Time,  for  action,  usually  brief, 
18,  65 

Title:  distinguished  and  de- 
fined, 29-30;  as  i»erminal  idea, 
38;  whence  derived,  122;  its 
several  functions,  122-3;  its 
length,  123;  marks  of  good 
t.,  123-7:  unique,  123;  defi- 
nite, 125;  honest,  125-6; 
pleasing,  126-7;  thought- 
compelling,  127 

Tone:  when  it  should  be  de- 
termined, 49,  120;  use  of 
refrain  for  t.,  89;  at  begin- 
ning of  story,  111;  as  affect- 
ing atmosphere,  168;  illustra- 
tion of  setting  of  t.  in  several 
stories,  115-120 

Tone-qualities,  of  style,  186-8 

True-story,  the,  52-4 


Types  of  stories,  21-2 

l^niqucness:  of  character,  how 
attained,  63-4;    of  title,  123 

Unity:  of  impression,  3,  13-16, 
19,  111,  160;  of  time,  place, 
character,  18,  66 

VAN  Dyke,  Hexry,    The  Other 

Wise  Man,  30,  n. 
Verisimilitude,  77,  99-102 

Waite    and    Taylor,  Modern 

Masterpieces   of  Short   Prose 

Fiction,  13,  15 
Wells,  li.  G.,  44 
WniTcoMB,    Selden     L.,     The 

Study  of  a  Novel,  1 1 
Winchester,  C.  T.,  Principles 

of  Literary  Criticism,  132,  n. 

143,  n. 
Witness,  "angle"  of,  97 
Wordsworth,  William,  173 


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